Midnight Stirs the Memory
by Busanda
Summary: Christine’s attendance at her first bal masque, a year before the “strange events of the Phantom of the Opera,” results in curious encounters, as her “Angel of Music” becomes her guardian angel for the night and something far more unbelievable—a man.
1. Il etait une fois

**Midnight Stirs the Memory**

By Busanda

**Summary:** Christine's attendance at her first _bal masque_ (a year before the "strange events of the Phantom of the Opera") results in curious encounters and unexpected revelations, as her "Angel of Music" appoints himself her _guardian _angel for the night and, in the process, becomes something far more unbelievable—a man.

**Setting:** With a curtsey and wink to M. Leroux, this story is established around the premise set in the musical-movie version.

**Historical Context:** Though the building that we now know as the Opéra de Paris or Palais Garnier with its infamous underground lake did not open until 1875, I felt that it made a sumptuous and ideal backdrop for my story and chose to overlook that fact. Think of my building as a composite of the Palais Garnier and the Old Paris Opera, which, by all accounts, was a lovely building itself (and burned in a fire in 1873). Since my story is set at the end of 1869, unlike the movie, I have managed to avoid any historical conflicts with the socio-political realities of the time, i.e. the Franco-Prussian War and the ensuing chaos upon the abdication of Napoleon III.

**Chapter 1**

"**Il était une fois…"**

_30 December 1869_

Had anyone walked down the little-used hallway in the out-of-the-way corner towards the even-less-used chapel of the Paris Opera any night for the past eight years, they would have found Christine Daaé and heard the ethereal being for whom she sang. This night would be no exception, as Christine's sparkling voice reverberated and faded against the cold stone of the chapel walls at the end of yet another lesson. It was in this room shortly after being brought to train in the opera's famed ballet school as a young child that she first heard him speak to her from above, assuring her of her talent, asserting that she would see her dreams fulfilled, and, more importantly, comforting the grieving and lonely little girl that she had been.

Her teacher's voice, deep and resonant, filled the small chamber. "Remember, let the music flow through you as you sing. Feel it with every fiber before you release it." A satisfied sigh could be heard then, drifting through the air. "Your voice is becoming a thing of true beauty. Wait and see; we shall astonish Paris."

"Yes, Master," the young woman answered, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"That will be all for tonight, Christine. You did well, child."

"Thank you." She hesitated a moment. "Master?" she asked tentatively.

"Yes, Christine, what is it?" he responded patiently, his heavenly voice echoing throughout the room.

"The aria…from _Lucia di Lammermoor_…'Il dolce suono'…are you truly expecting me to be ready with it by next week?"

"Of course…is there a problem? Are you having difficulties with it?" he asked with some concern.

"It's just that it is so very hard…nothing like you've had me sing before. I'm afraid that it is beyond my ability…that I won't do it justice, and you'll be disappointed," she confessed.

"You could only disappoint me, Christine, by not attempting it. Your voice is showing growth every day; but if it is not challenged on occasion, it will never realize its full potential, which…as far as I am able to discern…is vast. You are young yet, I do not expect the aria to be perfect the first time you sing it for me. I ask only that you try.

"Will you do that for me, Christine?" he questioned tenderly.

"Yes…of course, I will." She smiled lovingly up at the painted angel in front of her, needing to focus on something tangible as she spoke with her incorporeal mentor. "And I'll finish the Voltaire that you asked me to read." The young woman picked up two books from the bench behind her.

"Good girl. We will discuss it at the end of our next lesson…is that _Candide_ that you have?" he inquired.

"Yes, Angel," she answered.

"What is the other book, Christine?"

She blushed and seemed slightly embarrassed by the question. "It is nothing." She fidgeted nervously.

"What book do you have, Christine? Please tell me, I am curious."

"Oh, Angel, it is just a book of Monsieur Perrault's fairy tales. I know that I'm too old for them, but…I do still enjoy them. I think I always will."

He was familiar with the book in question as it had been a Christmas gift from him to her years before. At the time, she believed that it had come from Père Noël. For all he knew, she still believed that it had come from St. Nicholas. After all, the dear girl still believed in angels. Didn't she?

"Nonsense. Fairy tales were meant not only for children. I see nothing wrong with reading them and enjoying them for as long as you wish. Which is your favorite? Or, need I ask."

"You know it's 'Cinderella,' Angel," she smiled.

"Why do you favor that one above all the others, Christine?"

"I don't know…I suppose it's because it's every girl's dream to be swept away from her ordinary life by a handsome prince." She giggled softly.

"Is it? Yes…well…it is perhaps a good thing that it is only a fairy tale, then," the voice said with a trace of resentment.

"Why, Angel? I sometimes dream that one day I'll meet a handsome prince…maybe not a real prince but a sweet and kind man, and he'll love me. And I'll love him. He'll take me to live in his beautiful castle far away. Only it wouldn't be a real castle, would it…but a lovely house just the same." Her face took on a dreamy, faraway look, but she was quickly brought back to reality.

"You would leave the opera house? You would leave your angel?" He sounded hurt and disappointed.

"Oh, no. I didn't mean that…I mean, you would come with me. You would follow me wherever I went, wouldn't you?" she asked.

There was silence, and Christine became uneasy with it.

"Angel? Are you still there?" she asked tensely.

"Yes, Christine." His voice suddenly seemed to have a resigned, tired sound to it.

"You are my angel. Surely, you would follow me," she persisted.

"It is not that simple, child. I was sent to watch over you for as long as you needed me…for as long as you needed my music. If you no longer lived in the opera house, you would have no further need of music—mine or anyone else's."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he continued, "You are gifted child—gifted with a great talent. And you please God and your father and your angel when you use your talent. You honor us when you sing. How sad we would be if you were to abandon it for an ordinary life…," his words dissolved into a low muttering, "with some undeserving…cur…selfish…needs..."

She caught only snippets of what he was saying. "Angel?" Christine asked hesitantly.

"I am sorry, Christine. It is just that I would hate to see you throw your musical gifts away. It would be the same as throwing away your angel. How that would hurt me, Christine…how that would hurt me," the celestial voice spoke forlornly.

"Oh, my angel, I would never actually leave. I could never leave…not you…not your music."

There was silence again, and Christine felt the tears gather in her eyes at the thought that she had distressed and hurt her devoted teacher—her angel. His voice remained silent, and her tears began to fall.

He let her weep. But finally, he consoled her, "Do not cry, child. Hush. Hushhh. Shhh, there, there. Dry your eyes…there's a good girl."

She began to dab at her cheeks and eyes, nodding her head and attempting to smile.

"We will speak no more of this. Now, think only happy thoughts of your angel, and we will meet again tomorrow."

"Ohhhh…" Christine's brow creased, and she began twisting her handkerchief nervously. A look of dread spread across her face at the thought of what she was about to tell him.

"Christine? You will come to your angel…here…tomorrow." His statement was emphatic.

"Oh, my angel…I…I…I cannot." She held her breathe and inwardly braced herself for what she knew would follow.

"YOU CANNOT?" he bellowed in anger, causing Christine to flinch and tuck her chin down to her chest.

"N…N…No, my angel." Her voice trembled as she cowered before the irascible presence that filled the entire room. "I'm going to the masquerade ball…it's New Year's Eve."

"The masquerade ball? The masquerade ball?" His voice had risen an octave.

"What nonsense is this…allowing a young lady of your tender age to attend a party well into all hours of the night? What is Gir…your guardian thinking?"

"Madame Giry gave us permission…that is, Meg and me, to go." As she continued, in an attempt to explain and forestall any further wrath, Christine's speech began to accelerate. "We're so looking forward to it. It will be the first adult party we've ever gone to. Meg's Aunt Céline works for Worth and Bobergh. She's head seamstress there. She's altering a couple of dresses from a few seasons ago for us to wear. She'll be in terrible trouble if Monsieur Worth finds out, even though the dresses aren't the latest and they've been in storage all this time. She's changing them ever so slightly to make them a little different, just in case, since he's very particular about who wears his designs—my goodness, the empress. And even though they're a little bit old, Meg and I think that they will still be far more fashionable than what most of the other ladies have. I haven't seen mine yet, but Meg…"

"Silence!" he said with a perceptible shudder.

She stopped immediately, holding her breath, her eyes clenched shut, waiting for him to rail.

"Desist with your rambling, mademoiselle," he said with a tremendous sigh. "I am not angry with you."

Not this time, she thought. However, she had noticed the ever-more-frequent demonstrations of bad temper from him over the past six months or so. And while she had learned not to be surprised by them, she could not reconcile this new moodiness to the patient and gentle teacher that she had known since she was a small child. She often pondered her angel's ever-increasing spectrum of human emotion and wondered at the source of it. Surely, if he were a heavenly entity, as she had once forced herself to believe, he would have a mild, even temper and not be prone to the fits of anger that he frequently exhibited. What had changed? Had she done something to displease him?

She also noticed that he no longer told her he loved her as he had done when she was younger. Up until a year ago, it was common practice for her to tell him that she loved him at the conclusion of a lesson before going back to her room, to which he would respond, "And I love you, Christine." Before she had grown up, their relationship had seemed so steady; the slightest changes were perplexing to the young woman.

And then there was the nagging doubt that surfaced from time to time. Ever since the day, four years earlier, when she had broached the subject of the Angel of Music with her foster sister, Meg. Presenting it in a purely hypothetical manner, she asked her, "What would you think if you heard a man's voice from above, speaking to you, knowing your name? What if he told you that he was an angel sent from heaven?"

"I wouldn't necessarily think it was an angel, Christine," Meg responded promptly. "How would I know it wasn't the Opera Ghost playing a trick on me?"

Christine had put that unhappy thought immediately out of her mind. In the end, she reasoned that, angel or ghost, the being who taught her about music, as well as history and literature and philosophy and art and so many things she would otherwise never know, was a benevolent spirit of kindness. However, she had ceased envisioning him with the wings and halo of an angel.

She was brought out of her reverie by his then calm voice. "It is not your fault, child. How could you not be enticed by all the glitter that the ball promises? All the superficial beauty? Hhmm? No. I do not blame you for your enthusiasm or desire to attend. However, your guardian…"

"Oh, but, Angel, we begged her to let us go. We didn't leave it alone for months until she finally consented, so it was our fault. Please, don't be angry with her."

"No, I'm not, Christine." He sighed. "Go, and have a good time, my dear. Your angel is just a bit of an old curmudgeon, that's all," he stated despondently.

"All right. I'll speak with you in two night's time then."

"Yes. Adieu for now, Christine."

"Good-night, my angel…I love you."

As she expected, he did not respond, and so Christine turned and left.

It was only after she had gone that a quiet, hushed voice could be heard in the air above the opera house chapel as it whispered, "Good-night, my love."

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"What were you thinking, madame! Allowing innocent, young girls to attend the opera's yearly bacchanalia. It's positively irresponsible of you. _You_, who should be protecting them and watching over them, shielding their…," he was cut off.

"I _will_ be watching over them. They are attending in my company. And you make it sound like I'm taking them to some drunken orgy. Really, Erik! It is a well-respected, much-anticipated social event, attended by persons of rank and refinement."

"Refinement!…my disembodied ass! I don't know about your Meg, but Christine is still a child…an impressionable one at that."

"For all intents and purposes, and in case you haven't noticed, Christine is now an adult…she turned sixteen last month," she stated.

"Oh, I've noticed. However, age means nothing when evaluating one's maturity," he argued.

"Oh, don't I know that." She looked up at him under a raised brow.

He overlooked her comment and continued, "Christine has led a very insulated life here. She doesn't understand how the world works. And I would not want her to make the wrong assumptions based on what she encounters at a loud, raucous event, with revelers making fools of themselves."

"True, she has led a very sheltered life. But I am constantly amazed by her insights and thoughts on things. I think that she may have you to thank for much of it; you've taught her more than music. She is very mature for a girl of her age. She is very astute; I am astounded that she has not figured out your deception yet…'Angel of Music,' bah!"

His eyes began to blaze and his jaw became rigid as he hissed, "You forget yourself. I would remind you, madame, to mind your words."

She straightened, raised her chin, and looked him squarely in the face. "I am not scared of you. I still remember, all too clearly, that frightened little boy with the bag over his head."

"I'm not that little boy anymore," he snarled.

"No?"

"You try my patience," he ground out.

"This conversation will lead us nowhere." She paused, looking around the little-used practice room lit by the single oil lamp that she had brought with her. "What would you have me do? Keep Christine locked up in her room for the rest of her life only to be allowed out to perform or attend her nightly lessons with you? Do you truly think that will make her happy? Do you honestly believe that would be enough for her? You might as well take her down to that cave of yours and never let her see the sunlight again or hear the birds sing…"

He moaned faintly and hung his head.

"I'm sorry, Erik." Her tone becoming gentle. "I know you care about her, but Christine is not like you as much as you want to believe."

His head snapped up, and he glared at her. "What the devil is that supposed to mean? As if that glorious creature of beauty and light, that scion of sweetness and purity, could ever be like me. _She_ is the angel. Don't you think I know all too well that she is nothing like me? Nor could she ever care for me if she knew what I truly was. No, madame, I am not an angel, and I am brutally aware of it. I am the farthest thing from an angel, which is why she must never discover the truth.

"I couldn't bear it," he added softly, deflated from his tirade.

"Erik, if I did not know better, I'd think you were in love with her," she said pointedly.

"Of course, I love Christine. I've loved her since the moment I first heard her sing."

"No, Erik. I said, '_in_ love with her.'"

He looked at her, dismayed.

"How could you imply something like that, madame? It is not only ridiculous, it is obscene. Never mind my horrific face, but I've known the girl since she was a small child; I'm her teacher—I'm practically old enough to be her father."

"So, you have given it some thought, then." Her eyebrow raised as she appraised his reaction.

He turned away from her slightly to face the dark corner of the already dark room.

"You know, Erik, it is not uncommon for a young woman to fancy an older man especially one that she has already come to care for. And besides, you're hardly decrepit."

At that, he turned his face, a knotted crease at his forehead, his eyes wide in consternation—incredulous did not describe the look he cast her way. "Are you actually encouraging me? That you, as her guardian, would actually promote such a union is beyond belief—your senses have left you, madame. Perhaps you need a vacation.

"Besides! What about my wretched face?" He scowled.

"If she loved you, your face would not matter. Christine is not a superficial person. She has…"

"Ah! Right now, the young lady in question sits by a lamp somewhere reading a fairy tale. Do you know which fairy tale, madame? 'Cinderella.' That's which fairy tale. A tale of a beautiful, yet poor and unloved girl, whisked away by a handsome prince…a handsome prince! Not some deformed freak whose effigy is most likely to be found at the corner of a tall building with a gutter spout through his mouth."

"Erik, you're being too hard on yourself. Your face is not…," she attempted to interject, but he was not listening.

"She dreams of such things. Of handsome men and happy futures and lovely houses filled with sunshine and light. And why shouldn't she? She deserves such things…she deserves everything that I cannot give her." He paused for a moment; Madame Giry was silenced at last.

"My face and age aside, she deserves a man that she can respect. Our entire relationship up to this point is based upon a myth. I have perpetuated this lie and stoked its continued existence with the best of intentions, but no matter the intent, a lie it is and will always remain. Oh, she loves her Angel of Music, of that I have no doubt. However, if she were to discover the truth of it, the truth of who I am, I do not believe even a heart as sweet and generous as Christine Daaé's could ever forgive."

"Oh, Erik. You do not know the girl as well as you claim then," she said faintly, almost to herself.

They stood in silence until finally, he broke it and, in a calm and even voice, as if the previous discussion had not happened, said, "I am still concerned, however, about Christine being allowed to attend that party. I don't want her to meet the wrong kind of people."

"Wrong kind of people?" she repeated.

"Yes. Roués and cads. Handsome faces spouting sweet talk with no more concern for her honor or reputation than if she plied the trade in some alley in Montmartre."

"If you're so concerned, my friend, and so convinced of my inability to take care of my girls, why don't you attend? You could keep a close eye on Christine—maybe even ask her to dance." Madame Giry clucked softly, tossing her long, auburn braid over her shoulder.

"I do not appreciate your humor, madame. Are you determined to have your neck snapped this evening, or are you just tempting fate?"

"I'm not being funny, Erik. I seem to recollect, years ago, you attended the masquerade…I think you actually enjoyed it."

"I do not recall ever attending the masquerade ball," he stated defiantly.

"I do. You asked me to dance with you. Remember? It was the last time I saw you truly smile…I think it was a waltz, and your eyes sparkled in the light."

"You are mistaken."

"No. You were there, and so was I…I remember it clearly. A handsome, young man in evening dress appeared before me. He was tall and lean, with hair of dark waves and eyes the color of the sea after a storm…listen to me…I've become poetic." Madame Giry had drifted off for a moment, staring straight ahead, as she recalled her girlhood memory. A tiny, wistful smile graced her customarily serious face. She gave a short laugh and looked to her companion, who then appeared deeply lost in thought himself as he stared out into the dark corner before him.

"It _was_ a waltz; the 'Lorelei,' I believe. The second viola was out of tune," he added quietly.

"You _do_ remember," she said with restrained elation.

"You ran away soon after that...with that man," he added bitterly.

"You ran away too…and stayed gone far longer," she responded.

An uneasy silence was broken as she continued, "I worried about you all those years. No word. Wondering where you had gone…if you were all right. Wondering what you were doing…what was being done to you."

"You never worried about me. You had your child. You had the ballet. Since when was I your concern?" he spit out.

"Since the night I opened that cage," she answered plainly.

"You never cared about me. You led me down to those cellars and left me there with the rats, where I belonged. You only ever worried that I'd be caught, and you'd be held responsible," he replied with contempt.

"That's not true, Erik. I was always concerned for your well-being. But it wasn't long after you came here that I realized that I simply couldn't control you. I was just a child myself, Erik. A foolish, frightened child, who, yes, didn't want to be responsible for the actions of a precocious, unhappy boy." She grabbed a steadying breath.

He remained silent, yet the fumes of tension in the little room were nearly combustible.

She continued in a pleading tone, "I thought you could take care of yourself. You were always so self-reliant. You never said anything then…you never asked for anything…oh, Erik, what did you want from me?" Her voice had risen increasingly in frustration.

After a quiet moment of reflection, he answered flatly, "Nothing…nothing that you could give me."

She sighed, "I've tried to make it up to you since then, haven't I? I've put myself and my daughter in a precarious position by being your harbinger…by being your friend."

"Are we friends? I have no friends, madame. An acquaintance perhaps, but not a friend. If you count me amongst your circle, I pity you," he said with contempt.

She threw her hands up into the air and slapped them back down on her thighs. "I give up."

He raised his eyebrow knowingly, but said nothing.

"I have to go check on the girls. Make certain they're all getting ready for bed."

She turned to leave but stopped and looked back at him as he faced the far wall. "I've always wondered something…where were you all those years? You never did say."

After a contemplative moment, he answered, "Building an opulent, pleasure palace for the shah of Persia."

She rolled her eyes and snorted. "Of course, you were…forget I asked."

And with that she walked out, taking the lamp with her, leaving him lost in his thoughts, as dark as the walls around him.

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"_Then, dressed in splendor, she was taken to the prince. He thought she was more beautiful than ever and married her a few days later. Cinderella, who was as good as she was beautiful, took her sisters to live in the palace and arranged for both of them to be married, on the same day, to great lords."_

"The end." Christine closed her book of fairy tales. "Now everybody goes to sleep. Pauline, Jammes, Mimi, get into your beds. Madame will be up shortly." With that threat, the reluctant little ballerinas scrambled off Christine's bed to their own.

"Oh, Christine, when you marry the prince, will you arrange to have us all married off to great lords too," Pauline, a tiny, little redhead, asked her in a sweet voice.

"Of course, dear, when I marry the prince." Christine could not help smiling.

"Is everybody ready for the lamps to go out?" Meg asked.

"Yes," the girls in the room murmured in unison.

"Christine, not the candle," Jammes chirped in.

"No, of course not," Christine responded. Ever since Jammes had arrived several years before, she had to have a candle burning in the sconce by the door, or she would never allow herself to doze off. It had become a custom in the dormitory for the older girls to turn down the lamps but leave little Jammes' candle burning after receiving their nightly reminder. No one really minded as they all secretly believed that it would keep the Opera Ghost at bay.

Shortly after they all lay down, the door quietly opened, signaling the arrival of Madame Giry for her final inspection of the dormitory. After a stroll around the room, she silently walked over to the little alcove that held the beds of Meg and Christine. "Good-night, my dears," she said softly as she bent first over Meg to place a gentle kiss on her forehead, and then Christine.

"Good-night, Mamma," Meg whispered to her.

"Good-night, Madame," Christine whispered in turn.

After she had gone and the door was closed, Meg turned to Christine and whispered, "Christine, do you think we'll meet our princes tomorrow at the ball?"

"I don't know, Meg. I rather doubt it, but it's fun to consider, isn't it?"

"I can't wait," Meg suppressed a squeal. "I don't know how I'm going to sleep tonight."

"I know it's hard," Christine replied, "but you'd better, or you'll have bags under your eyes. And no one will want to dance with you."

"Do you feel like Cinderella?" Meg asked. "I feel like Cinderella."

"Yes, Meg. I feel like Cinderella," Christine replied.

"Well then, Sorelli and Carlotta are the nasty stepsisters."

Christine giggled.

After a moment, Meg added, "But I'll be damned before I help them marry any great lords. I'm not _that_ good."

"SHHSHH!" came from somewhere in the darkened room. And with that, the girls ceased their conversation and quickly drifted off to sleep.

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As he made his way down to his lair deep beneath the opera house, Erik became increasingly agitated by the conversation that he had had with Madame Giry.

"The impertinence of that woman," he exclaimed aloud as he neared the shore of the underground lake. "How dare she suggest that I am in love with Christine!" His voice boomed and echoed off the cavernous walls around him, sending his words, "in love with Christine," bouncing throughout the cellars and fading finally to a faint whisper off in the distance, taunting him.

He reached the shore, grabbed his pole, and quickly pushed off from the little dock. "In love with Christine," he grumbled as he punted his ornate, little boat quickly through the murky, green water. "I am _not_ in love with Christine," he uttered, dejectedly. Quite suddenly, he stopped his punting, threw the pole forward into the boat, and sank down until he sat at the stern, his head in his hands.

The little boat drifted as Erik's mournful sobs floated out over the still water.

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**Note: "Cinderella" by Charles Perrault**

"Cendrillon ou La Petite Pantoufle de Verre" or "Cinderella or the Little Glass Slipper" was one of many famous stories written by the father of the modern fairy tale, Charles Perrault, who lived from 1628-1703. His other well-known stories, which he adapted from old French folktales, include, "Little Red Riding Hood," "Sleeping Beauty," and "Puss in Boots." Perrault, a member of the _Académie française_ and a leading intellectual of his time, could have never imagined the continued popularity of his simple, children's morality tales, which first appeared in print in 1697 as _Tales and Stories of the Past with Morales or Tales of My Mother Goose._


	2. Les habits d'or et d'argent

**Chapter 2**

"**Les habits d'or et d'argent"**

_31 December 1869_

The two girls carefully balanced the dress bags draped in their arms as they virtually skipped away from the back door of 7, rue de la Paix. If joy could manifest itself physically, it would have formed a gleeful vapor around the girls' heads and followed them down the street, imparting its infectious nature to every passerby as little sprinkles of glowing, jolly mist.

"How are we going to fit on the omnibus?" Christine asked, juggling the large muslin bag in her arms, still with a smile on her face.

"I don't know. Perhaps, we'll each have to pay a separate fare for the dresses so they can have their own seats," Meg laughed.

"Oh, Meg," Christine joined with a giggle.

Then Christine affected a serious pose—lips pursed, nose in the air—and said in an equally affected way, "Yes, monsieur, four fares, if you please, to the place de l'Opéra. One for me, one for my friend here, and two for our magnificent gowns."

The two girls squealed and laughed, flittering on air all the way to the omnibus stop.

Upon its arrival, with some determined wrestling of garment bags and to the vexation of their fellow passengers, they secured themselves seats on the large coach and settled in for the ride back to the opera.

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Erik woke suddenly, the victim of a bad dream. He could not remember the details, but as was the case with most of his dreams, the subject had something to do with Christine. He lay rubbing his eyes, bleary and caked—the result of his sudden journey to the valley of self-pity that he had embarked on the night before.

He tried not to think about his emotional collapse the previous evening. He had been well aware of his true feelings for Mademoiselle Christine Daaé for quite some time. It was hearing the truth of it uttered by Madame Giry that sent his mind and emotions spinning. It was the gall of the woman, to give his heart the tiniest flicker of hope in an all too harsh reality, which left him sobbing and choking, adrift on the lake.

As he rolled out of bed and trudged over to the washstand, Erik remembered Christine's lesson, which had instigated the confrontation with her guardian in the first place. The erstwhile-dormant feeling of fear and its good friend, panic, had assaulted him viciously as Christine spoke of leaving the opera house. He had been hurt by it. A self-professed master of manipulation, his first instinct had been to turn it back on her, which he did by causing her to feel guilt and shame at the mere suggestion. "Little ingrate," he thought at the time, "how dare you think of leaving me, after all I've done for you." Yet, upon reflection, was he not nurturing her voice so that she could go forth and succeed in the world? Would he not have to let her go eventually? Was it not inevitable? He loved her too much not to want her happy.

He realized that it was not simply the idea of her leaving that caused such bitterness, but that it might be due to the presence of another man. The impending ball was just a glaring reminder that it was only a matter of time before her handsome prince from the fairy tales manifested himself and lured Christine away from her angel's sway. She had become a vision of beauty over the past year, and Erik was certain that it would not be long before other men took notice. Adding to that bleak thought was the knowledge that she would be on display that very evening, in all her glory, for every man in Paris to admire and covet for his own.

Erik growled at his image in the mirror before pouring water into the bowl and dousing his face. As he dried off, he thought back on her innocent notion that he could simply follow her wherever she went. "Ah, yes," he smirked, as he addressed himself, "I can hear her now, explaining me to her new husband, 'Don't mind the strange, masked man with the homicidal gleam in his eye, dear heart. He's just my Angel of Music. He lives in the closet and sings songs in my head.'" He laughed darkly.

"You're on borrowed time, Erik…borrowed time," he spoke again to his reflection.

However, as is the case with most desperate souls, he suddenly felt daring and not a little bit reckless. What was to stop him from taking up Giry's suggestion that he attend the ball himself? Nothing! It was a masquerade, Erik reasoned. It was certainly tempting—no one would have to see his face, at least before midnight.

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The two girls sat in their chemises and were rolling down their stockings when Madame Giry entered the room bearing three large towels. The bathtub sat at the ready, having just been filled with warm water.

"Well, have you decided who is going to go first?" Madame Giry asked.

"We flipped a centime, and I lost," answered Meg, as she examined the calluses around her toes.

"In with you then, Christine. And since all three of us need to use it, don't take too long. I would at least like the water to be lukewarm by the time I get in," Madame Giry said, knowing that it would be unlikely.

She left the girls alone as Christine sank into the soothing water with a bar of violet-scented soap. Meg began brushing her hair out as Christine bathed.

"Christine, may I wear some of your new perfume tonight?" Meg asked.

"Of course, Meg," Christine replied as she sponged off her arms.

"Do you ever wonder? Or, have you figured it out?" Meg asked.

"Figured out what?"

"Who gives you the presents?"

Christine did not answer, suddenly uncomfortable.

Meg went on, "Let's see, this year it was expensive perfume for Christmas and a cashmere shawl for your birthday. Last year…let me think…it was those pretty pearl earrings and that gorgeous abalone hair clip with the little crystals. And the year before that, it was…"

"Meg, stop it. I don't want to talk about it," Christine snapped.

"I'm sorry. I guess I'm just a little jealous. You've always gotten such lovely gifts. And how about the new dresses every year? Aren't you just a little bit curious as to where they come from? I would be."

Christine remained silent, rinsing off the soap.

"Have you ever asked Mamma? She has to know, Christine. She'd never allow you to accept them if she didn't know."

"I've always assumed it was one of my father's old patrons. Who else could it be?"

"So you've never asked Mamma? She knows, Christine…I'm willing to bet she knows exactly who your benefactor is. Mamma knows everything that goes on here. Why, she even knows the Opera Ghost."

Christine stood up in the bath and grabbed one of the towels but said nothing. She just looked warily at Meg, holding her breath, waiting for Meg to continue.

"Christine! You don't suppose, do you?" she asked, though she could not actually bring herself to voice what she was thinking.

Christine had started to pale, understanding completely.

"Meg, I don't want to talk about it," Christine implored.

"Well, whoever it is. He certainly has excellent taste."

Christine wrapped the towel around herself and left Meg alone in Madame Giry's bedroom where the tub had been placed. She walked into the small room next to it. Though she and Meg had beds in the dormitory and spent almost every night there with the other girls during the rehearsal and opera seasons, the extra room in Madame Giry's apartment was used as their bedroom when either of the girls was ill or for special occasions like their birthdays. Besides a small bed, the room contained a chest of drawers that Meg and Christine shared for the extra clothing items that would not fit in their little bureaus in the dorm, as well as a wardrobe closet that was jammed so full of dresses the door would barely close.

Since tonight was a special night, Christine opened one of her drawers in search of what she called her "fancy" chemise because of the delicate lace edging around the neck and the fact that she wore it rarely. As she started to pull the lingerie out, she glanced down and noticed something folded neatly in the corner.

"Oh!" she exclaimed softly.

She had not taken it out in a while, and the small piece of white cotton seemed to call to her to examine it. She set the chemise on the bed and carefully, almost reverently, lifted the folded cotton square out of the drawer. Sitting on the bed behind her, she set it down gently on the mattress and gingerly unfolded it to its full size.

She examined it lightly with the tips of her fingers—a gentleman's handkerchief made from the finest and softest cotton. On one corner, in red silk thread, there was an embroidered monogram—an elaborate letter "E."

She thought back to the night she acquired it many years before. Though she had no way to realize it then, in retrospect, it had been the night that changed the course of her life forever.

Madame Giry had brought her to live in the opera house only a week before. Eight-years old, her beloved father had left her to face the world alone only days before that. On his deathbed, he had consoled his beloved daughter by assuring her that upon his arrival in heaven, he would send her the Angel of Music to watch over her.

Thinking that it would offer the grief-consumed child some solace, Madame had asked her daughter, Meg, to show Christine the way to the chapel so that she could light a candle and pray for her father. She returned each night, lighting her candle, kneeling, and praying silently that her father in heaven would fulfill his promise to her; each night for a week, she returned to the dormitory with her prayer unanswered. On the eighth night, Christine lit her candle, knelt to pray, and could no longer contain the pain and heartbreak that had been trapped in her little body. Loud, unrestrained sobs escaped from her mouth, violently shaking her tiny frame. She lay down on the cold stone floor, curled into a ball on her side, and continued to weep until there seemed to be no tears left to cry. As she hiccupped and wiped at her swollen eyes and cheeks with the backs of her hands, a white piece of cloth fluttered down from above her and landed on the floor. Thinking there had to be someone else in the room with her, Christine sat up with a start and looked around. When she did not see anyone, she cautiously reached for it and picked it up. It was then she heard his voice, the voice of the Angel of Music, "Dry your eyes, child, and cry no more."

Christine smiled as she thought back to that night and all the nights since. She looked down at the white cotton square and folded it as a priest would fold a holy relic, carefully placing it back in the corner of her drawer.

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"This is madness," Erik muttered to his reflection as he dragged the straightedge down over his jaw. "But then, who has ever accused you of being sane, my friend," he chuckled in response to his one-sided conversation.

He rinsed the razor off in the washbasin and toweled off his face, taking one quick look back up into the mirror before bracing himself with cologne and fastening the mask he had chosen for the evening. Unlike the white, kidskin half-mask that he had come to favor since his return to Paris many years before, he donned a full mask in a shade of ivory that resembled dried bone, which covered most of his face. It ended just above his lips and curved slightly down each cheek, ensuring that the distorted flesh of the right side would be sufficiently out of view.

"Tonight, you'll fit right in. No one will tell you from Adonis…until midnight." The irony of that fact was not lost on him as he thought of Christine's favorite story and its similarities with the annual ball's traditional unmasking at the stroke of midnight.

Already dressed from the waist down, he donned an elegantly made shirt of white polished cotton, tucking it into black trousers of fine wool; he then girded his waist with a black silk cummerbund. He next put on a waistcoat of black silk brocade accented by silver thread, which he thought would look nice with his diamond cravat pin. Erik moved back in front of the mirror and wrapped his neck with lustrous black silk; he tied it and tucked it neatly into the top of his vest before impaling it with the pin in question. After inserting platinum cuff links, he finally shrugged on his tailcoat; the lapels and collar were trimmed with the finest velvet and silk gabardine available. Meticulous in his dress, everything fit perfectly—the product of an expert tailor.

As he made to leave, his hand instinctively reached down for the coiled piece of catgut rope that sat sentinel on the table by the door of his bedroom. He stopped, deciding that he would leave it this once. After all, he would not have his cloak to conceal it, and on this night, he could pretend that he was a normal man just like anybody else.

He moved out into the cavernous front of the lair, where several full-length mirrors stood along the rough-hewn wall. They were covered by elegant damask draperies. He pulled the cover off one of them and stood back.

As he took in his appearance in the mirror, he thought to himself, "Not bad…certainly passable…nothing out of the ordinary with all those masks tonight…not a bad figure at all." And with that, he gave a yank to his vest, smoothed over the lapels of his coat, and gently tugged on his fine leather gloves.

"It's a shame about the face though," he muttered derisively at his reflection before turning away.

Stepping into the little boat that would take him across the lake, he rationalized his attendance at the ball. He told himself that he would watch over Christine, nothing more. He would stand back away from the crowd and the goings on and observe, keep her safe from the mischief of others. However, in the unlikely event that she received no offers for a dance, he would take pity on her and offer himself for the service—just so the poor girl did not leave feeling totally rejected. He trusted that he could modulate his speech just enough that she would not recognize his voice, though he believed that the sound of it muffled through a wall or echoing from the ceiling of the chapel had distorted its true inflection enough that he need not worry.

If only things were different, Erik mused as he punted the boat out of the grotto. If only he weren't deformed. If only he had not allowed that deformity and the cruelty and shame that came with it to set him apart from humanity. If only he had not already sold what passed for a soul to the devil himself for a chance at revenge on those that had hurt him…if only he weren't an irredeemable monster. His life, he ruminated, was one regret after another—some in his control, some out. Even if Christine found it in her precious heart to forgive him and love him, Erik knew with brutal clarity that he could never forgive himself.

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"Pull, Christine!" Meg held on to the doorframe as Christine placed her knee squarely on Meg's derrière.

"Oh, Meg," Christine grunted, "I…don't…think…I can…get it…any…tighter." She tied the lace and let go, exhaling a big puff of air. "That'll have to be good enough," she said, panting.

Meg ran her hand over the waist of the corset, trying to gauge her size.

"Look," Christine said with annoyance, "if you want it any tighter, you can always go and get one of the sceneshifters. I'm certain they'd love to help."

"No, it's fine. Come here, Christine. Let me get this thing over your head. Arms up." Meg lifted the stiff crinoline and carefully placed it over Christine's arms and head, pulling it down until it landed at her waist. Christine tied it and did the same for Meg.

"Christine, you're not going to try to put your hair up, are you?" Meg asked as Christine stood behind her pinning her hair up into a lovely chignon.

"No, don't worry. I won't do that to you. It would never stay up anyway—there aren't enough pins in all of Paris to keep my hair up for the entire evening. I'm just going to roll it back and pin it at my nape." She continued talking with hairpins between her teeth, "Your aunt made those lovely rosettes with the ribbons to match my dress." She stood back to examine Meg's coiffure in the mirror, last pin inserted. "We can put those in."

"Oh, Christine. It's lovely. Thank you." Meg jumped up from the little chair. "Now, it's your turn."

After finishing their hair, the girls stood for a moment in their corsets and pantalets contemplating their gowns, which had been carefully laid across the bed in Madame Giry's room. Christine's face beamed with delight; Meg turned to her, grabbed her hands, and squealed. After a quick bounce on their toes, they walked over and very carefully began to help each other into the seemingly-endless yards of silk.

Meg's dress was made of a cornflower blue, silk faille with delicate ivory and blue lace edging. The skirt, which was swept and gathered slightly to the back, was cut in the more modern oval-shape that was only then catching on with mainstream fashion. Her bodice was cut with a slight V; its edging accented with ivory seed pearls. Everything about its design and construction would signal to the discerning lady that it was a Charles Worth or a very fashionable copy.

Christine's dress was made from a raspberry rose-colored satin. Meg's aunt had chosen this particular dress for her since it accented the mahogany and amber of her hair and eyes in a most pleasing way. Christine had fallen in love with it the moment she had seen it. It was gathered towards the back like Meg's, and shimmering folds of satin falls formed a graceful polonaise down the oval-shaped skirt. It gave the illusion that it possessed an overskirt, boasting a hem displaced by three tiers of ruching and contrasting celadon-colored ribbon running along the edge. The V-shaped bodice with its round waist was also edged in the celadon ribbon. Two clusters of matching silk rosettes sat at the edge of her shoulders.

After dressing, they carefully applied some rouge to their lips and cheeks, subtly darkened their eyes with kohl, and inserted their earrings. After donning their white, elbow-length evening gloves, they stood back, taking turns admiring and adjusting in Madame's floor-length mirror.

Madame Giry had prepared earlier to give the girls the space to dress. She was waiting patiently in the sitting room when the door to her bedroom finally opened, and the girls sashayed out for inspection.

"Oh, my dears!" Madame Giry exclaimed, her hands going to either side of her face. "You look stunning.

"You do know how fortunate you are. Not many young ladies will be wearing such exquisite gowns. And you both look so beautiful in them."

Madame approached them and curiously fingered the fabric of the dresses, smoothing out apparent wrinkles and folds.

She put her hand gently on Christine's cheek and looked earnestly into her eyes. "My dear, your father would be so proud to see the lovely, young woman that you've grown to be."

Christine's smile faltered for a moment.

"Oh, my dear, I did not mean to make you sad," Madame Giry said.

"I know, Madame. Don't worry. He is always with me, and I know that he is proud," she said, her smile returning.

Then Madame Giry turned to Meg and caressed her cheek. "And you, my dearest Meg. Your Papa would be proud of you as well. Just as I am."

The girls could then clearly see the tears forming in Madame Giry's eyes.

"Uhhhh," Madame Giry growled in her inimitable way, shaking off the melancholy. "I must stop with the sentimentality. Tonight is a happy night. You should have smiles on your faces to crown your loveliness."

Standing back and taking another look at the girls, she added, "My goodness! Now that I see you in all your finery, I think maybe it was a mistake to allow you to attend the ball. I shall have to bring my stick as I will need to beat the young men away from you two."

"Oh, Mamma," Meg sighed with an embarrassed smile.

"Now, seriously girls. We need to have some rules tonight if I am ever to allow you to attend something like this again. Remember what we discussed."

The girls nodded obediently.

"If a gentleman asks to bring you refreshments or to dance, you must first find out his name. And if he asks you to leave the hall to go for a walk or into one of the side rooms, you are to say what?" She waited, looking at their youthful faces.

Christine and Meg looked slyly at one another and then recited in unison, "I cannot, monsieur, as my mamma would be very cross." Shoulders quivering, they attempted to stifle a laugh.

"Then we have merely to point to you and your evil eye, which should be enough to ensure that we'll be spinsters forever," Meg added.

"Oh, Meg. I don't care if you girls dance all night with any gentleman you choose, as long as you stay where I can keep an eye on you both."

"Then it's a good thing there aren't three of us," Meg paused, allowing a snort to escape, "since you've only got two eyes."

"Very funny, Marguerite," Madame Giry scoffed, as the girls burst into laughter.

"Now, you have your fans…and your dance cards?" she asked, as she took a final inventory.

They nodded and fingered the items in question.

"And your masks?" she added.

They held them up slightly to indicate that they had them, but they had already decided they would dispense with wearing them until just before midnight.

"Good. Well, let us go then. You can always run back upstairs if you've forgotten anything. It's not as if we have to leave the building."

The girls began to flutter as the increasing excitement of their impending adventure reached the point of bubbling over; they could barely contain it.

As Madame opened the door, she added, "Just behave like the ladies that you are…oh, and be mindful not to drink too much punch. It will undoubtedly be spiked, and I don't want you tipsy."

"Yes, Mamma," Meg replied.

"Yes, Madame," Christine answered seriously.

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**Note: The House of Worth & Bobergh**

Charles Frederick Worth, the father of _haute couture,_ was actually an Englishman by birth. He worked as draper in various shops in London before moving to Paris in 1845, where he began working in one of the premier drapery shops in the city. Besides draperies, the shop also made and sold ladies' shawls and cloaks. He married one of the women hired to model the shawls and started making her dresses. Customers began to take more of an interest in Mme Worth's dresses than the shawls that she modeled, and soon requests for her husband's dress designs began coming in; he obliged. In 1858, after years of attempting to get the owners of the drapery firm to expand into dressmaking, Worth partnered with Swedish businessman Otto Bobergh to open his dressmaking shop at 7, rue de la Paix (the world's first fashion house). He soon fell under the patronage of Empress Eugénie, and his success was assured. Rather than let his customers dictate their wishes, as had been previous dressmaking practice (although he still made one-of-a-kind pieces for his more elite clientele), Worth prepared collections of model dresses four times a year for them to choose from and displayed them at fashion shows and in the salon of his "House." He would then give them a choice of fabric and have the dresses tailored to their specific measurements.

Closed during the Franco-Prussian War and the mayhem following, Worth reopened, minus Bobergh, in 1871 as the House of Worth. He led most of the major fashion trends of the mid- and late-nineteenth century, including the use of crinolines and, later, the development of the bustle. The business was handed to his sons and flourished until 1952, when his great-grandson retired and closed its doors (though under license its Worth Pour Homme cologne and Je Reviens perfume are still produced).


	3. Le bal

**Chapter 3**

"**Le bal"**

The entrance hall at the foot of the _Grande Escalier_ had been converted into a dance floor with Monsieur Reyer and the orchestra overlooking the scene from the topmost balcony above the stairs. Hundreds of candelabra and gas lamps sent their glow bouncing off the polished marble and gold leaf, creating something akin to a fairyland.

By the time Madame Giry and the girls made their entrance, gentlemen in evening dress and ladies in silk gowns and jewels had already arrived and were drinking and laughing. Some carried small plates of hors d'oeuvres from the numerous buffet tables set up in the _Grand Foyer. _Others had been lured to the dance floor by the melodious sound of the finest orchestra in France, this night playing lively dance tunes instead of the lavish strains of grand opera. They wore masks of all kinds in various colors and shapes—everything from simple dominoes to elaborate full masks studded with _faux_ gems and trimmed with gaudy feathers.

"Oh, Mamma, we're late," Meg remarked, slightly agitated.

"Hush, Meg. This party will carry on for many, many hours yet. I fear, if it is as it has been in past years, the management will have its hands full getting people out by dawn," Madame Giry responded.

"Oh, I'm so excited. What do we do?" Meg asked.

"You should both go and get something to eat," Madame Giry answered, knowing this was not the answer that her daughter probably wanted.

"Mamma! I'm too excited to eat."

"I suggest that you take a few minutes to eat now, rather than miss most of the evening because you've passed out from lack of food. No one will want to dance with you, Marguerite, if you're lying face down on the floor."

"Come on, Meg. Let's go see what they have," Christine grabbed Meg's hand and started towards the _Grand Foyer._

The girls had never seen anything like it, even at the annual Christmas celebration for the opera house employees. Table upon table was laid out with an endless assortment of cold meats, breads, cheeses, fruits, canapés, and finger sandwiches. And then there was the table at the far end of room that look liked every patisserie in Paris had emptied its contents onto it. Cakes, tarts, profiteroles, as well as tray after tray of pastries and cookies were set out for the taking.

"Christine! Napoleons! I must have one," Meg exclaimed, as she clutched at her friend's elbow and then darted for the stack of plates.

"I thought you had no time to eat," Christine chuckled.

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Christine and Meg arrived back at the dance floor just as the orchestra was pausing for a break. It would be another fifteen to twenty minutes before the music began again, allowing the musicians a much-deserved rest.

No sooner had they stopped to survey the scene, then two young men appeared before them. Both of medium height, both in their early twenties, they both sported friendly grins, wearing their domino masks pulled up above their foreheads leaving their faces fully exposed. The one facing Meg bowed slightly and introduced himself as Baron Henri de Castelot-Barbezac and his friend as Monsieur Didier Giguère, son of the Chevalier Maurice Giguère. Monsieur Giguère bowed politely to Meg and then to Christine.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur le Baron…Monsieur Giguère. I am Marguerite Giry, and this is my foster sister, Christine Daaé." Meg could barely maintain her composure.

"Truly, a pleasure, Mademoiselle Giry…Mademoiselle Daaé. My friend and I couldn't help but notice your arrival. You two ladies put the golden statues to shame, as nothing here can compare to your dazzling beauty," the baron said with practiced charm.

"Oh, monsieur, how sweet of you to say." Meg attempted not to giggle.

Christine stood by smiling and noting the appraising and satisfied look that she was receiving from the baron's friend. It made her slightly uncomfortable but, at the same time, sent a little thrill through her. She had never thought of herself as particularly pretty before, but even she had to concede that in her couture dress, with her hair done, and with the little bit of cosmetics that Madame Giry let her apply, she felt beautiful, whether in her critical mind she truly looked it or not.

"Once the orchestra begins, may we have the honor of the next dance?" the baron asked.

"Oh, we'd be delighted. Wouldn't we, Christine?" Meg glanced over at her, ensuring that she could speak for them both.

"Yes, thank you," Christine responded.

"Mademoiselle Daaé, may I get you something to drink…some punch?" Monsieur Giguère finally spoke.

"And you, Mademoiselle Giry?" the baron quickly interjected.

"Yes, thank you," Meg replied.

"Thank you," Christine added with a nod.

As soon as the two men turned and walked away, Meg bounced and squealed softly. "Oh, Christine. Aren't they darling? And so handsome? Oh, can you believe it? And our evening is just beginning."

"Yes, Meg," Christine laughed, "they're very nice. It will be fun to dance with someone. I've always dreamed of coming to a ball like this and dancing in a beautiful gown."

"Just like Cinderella," Meg responded.

"Yes. I only hope, though, that at the stroke of midnight we don't turn back into ballet rats," Christine commented.

"No. We won't turn back into ballet rats until tomorrow morning," Meg responded stoically.

Christine laughed, and Meg shrugged her shoulders. "Well, we can pretend we're fairy princesses…at least for tonight."

The baron and his friend returned a short time after, bearing drinks in each hand. They approached the girls and graciously handed them a cup of punch. While Meg moved slightly off to the side and began chatting with the very attentive young noble, Christine sipped her drink, shyly looking up into Monsieur Giguère's gaze. Neither said much of anything, but the look on the young man's face made his admiration for Mademoiselle Daaé very clear. Finally, he spoke, "I've never been to the opera's masquerade before. Have you?"

"No, I haven't. This is my first year."

A slightly uncomfortable silence again descended upon the couple, each of them taking miniscule sips of punch, catching snippets of the baron and Meg's animated conversation. After apparently taking an interest in something he heard Meg say, Monsieur Giguère began speaking again, "I just heard Mademoiselle Giry tell Henri that you two are ballet dancers here at the opera?"

"Yes, monsieur," Christine answered.

The young man then moved closer to Christine, so close that the sleeve of his jacket was brushing her arm. "Perhaps, then, mademoiselle, after our dance, you could show me the _Foyer de la Danse_," he asked in a low, husky voice; his hot breath grazing the skin of her cheek.

"I think not, monsieur, as the lady's dance card is filled," a man's authoritative voice declared from behind Monsieur Giguère in a tone that should have furthered no argument. "I suggest you make alternate plans this evening."

Christine had thought that the voice and its owner had to be standing behind the young man, but when she heard it again, it seemed to come from over her shoulder.

Giguère spun around, not certain where the man was standing. It was only then that Christine noticed him about ten feet away, directly in front of her. She felt an odd sensation in her chest as if her heart had tried, in one giant thump, to pound out of her body. Christine was caught in his stare, and she could not force herself to look away from the sparkling eyes that so thoroughly claimed her attention.

"Excuse me, monsieur. But the lady has promised the next dance to me," the young man answered with disdain.

"I believe there must be some misunderstanding, monsieur," the stranger responded condescendingly. "May I have a word?" He gestured for Monsieur Giguère to accompany him a little way away, out of Christine's hearing.

She looked on perplexed and unsure of what, if anything, she should say or do. So she merely stood by and waited. The stranger looked down on the young man as he spoke.

"Monsieur, you would do well to turn and walk away," the taller man said with a warning growl.

"I will not. Who do you think you are? What sort of gentleman are you?" a flustered Giguère replied.

"I, sir, am no gentleman; and so, I know your kind. For the sake of your health, I ask you to walk away and trouble the young lady no longer." He stared into the young man's eyes with a look that dripped of malice.

Whether it was the deep, sinister timbre of the man's voice or the menacing glint behind the mask, Didier Giguère was not certain; all he knew was that the man who spoke to him was serious in his threat. To hell with manly honor, the girl was not worth it, and he quickly made the decision to follow the stranger's advice. He walked away, never once looking back to Christine Daaé.

Christine watched as the conversation between the two men ended, and Monsieur Giguère retreated in the direction of the _Grand Foyer_. She also watched as the stranger turned to her and slowly approached. He stood before her, resplendent in black. The splash of white from his shirt collar and the glint of silver on his vest created the impression of a giant, black onyx shimmering in the sun. He was considerably taller than she, and she had to look up past his mask to catch the sparkle of his eyes. The glimmer that she found there was equaled only by the jeweled pin that stood out upon his silk cravat.

"The young man sends his regrets, but he had a previous engagement that he remembered only now."

He bent himself into an elegant bow from the waist and took her fingers gently into his gloved hand. "Erik Dambray, Mademoiselle…" He paused, looking up expectantly through long, dark lashes.

"Daaé."

"Mademoiselle Daaé." And with that, he skimmed the lightest of kisses across her slender fingers.

Her breath caught for a moment. She was charmed by the action, but when he slowly released her hand and stood before her again, she asked, "Why did you lie, monsieur? Why did you say that my dance card was full?"

"Lie, mademoiselle? I told no lie. See for yourself." He gestured to the card dangling from her wrist.

Christine lifted it with her opposite hand and gasped, her eyes went wide in amazement. Every space was filled with "M. Dambray."

"Monsieur…how…I did not…," she stuttered.

She looked to his face, his lips were turned up into a satisfied grin, which appeared below the line of the mask; his eyes twinkled with a boyish delight. She shook her head and continued to glance between the dance card and him. Christine was speechless.

"Well, mademoiselle…may I have the next dance?" he asked after several seconds.

Her face broke into a wide smile. "Apparently," she answered, holding up the card and waving it.

She laughed, and the sound of its sweetness mixed with the vision of delight in her eyes left Erik momentarily questioning reality—it was all too incredible. He was certainly questioning his reason, since this particular scenario had played only briefly through his mind as he sought various justifications for attending the ball and this outcome only as one imagines an absurd fantasy.

"The orchestra seems to be taking its place again," she noted, as they stood together.

Since he was so tall, she found herself looking directly at his cravat and the beautiful, oval-shaped jewel that studded it. "What a lovely stickpin, monsieur." She looked more closely, "Is that a diamond?"

"Yes." He glanced down. "A gift from the shahanshah. I once performed some services for him."

"You worked for the shah of Persia?" Christine asked, amazed.

"Yes, many years ago, I was commissioned by him for some architectural and design work. This was included in my payment?" Erik answered nonchalantly.

She looked again at the pin, noting the size of the diamond. "You must have done a very good job."

She was enchanting. The left corner of his mouth curved up into a crooked grin.

"So you're an architect?" she asked enthusiastically.

"Yes, and a designer, a composer, and musician, among other occupations," he answered simply.

"Other occupations…monsieur, you put most people to shame with the ones you've already mentioned." Christine smiled up at him, clearly impressed to have met such an accomplished man.

"Well, of that I am not certain," he replied modestly.

"Have I heard any of your musical compositions?" she asked with interest.

"Perhaps. Though I publish rarely," he answered.

"What kinds of pieces do you write?" she asked.

"Everything. Sonatas, concertos, vocal pieces…nocturnes. I'm also working on an opera."

"An opera! Truly? Oh, what is it about, monsieur?"

"It is my own telling of the story of Don Juan…I call it _Don Juan Triumphant,_" he answered a little nervously.

"Oh, monsieur, how ambitious! Will we see it performed?" she asked with great interest.

"No, mademoiselle. For I should never finish it," he answered quietly.

"Not finish it! But, monsieur, why?" she asked with great concern.

"There are reasons," he answered with a slight bitterness. "Some music consumes all who approach it," he added, as if only to himself.

Christine was perplexed by this strange comment, but she knew it would be better that she not inquire further and so remained politely silent.

"Enough about me. What do you do, Mademoiselle Daaé?" he asked pleasantly, happy to change the subject.

"Oh, I dance here at the opera. I'm in the ballet corps," she shrugged, acting slightly embarrassed.

"The Corps de Ballet of the Paris Opera is renowned. You must be very talented to have secured a place there," he responded.

She laughed slightly, "I'm there more through sheer force of will than talent, monsieur. My foster mother, Madame Giry, is the ballet mistress. I am determined to make her proud of me despite my lack of natural ability."

He could not help but smile. He had always known that Christine was charming, but tonight he could truly delight in her. He had never been this physically close to her before, with the exception of when she was ten and had a serious bout of influenza—Erik sat vigil at her bedside for two nights as Christine burned with fever.

She continued, "My true talent is as a singer." With this statement, her face seemed to beam, which Erik was quick to notice.

"A singer, mademoiselle?"

"Yes. It has always been my dream to be an opera singer. My father's wish for me as well."

"Your father knew music?" he asked.

"Yes, I grew up with it. It was my entire life. He was a musician—a violinist. From the time I can remember until his illness, I lived with the sound of his violin…it comforted me…made me feel safe." She paused for a moment. A melancholy smile adorned her face as she continued, "I'd sing on our travels, at taverns or train stations. Papa didn't like to accept money from common folk, but once in a while, he'd let me lay my bonnet out—people would toss money into it. He let me keep what I collected. I remember once I bought a beautiful red scarf and matching hat that I'd seen in a milliner's window. I still have the scarf—it reminds me of old friends and happy times before Papa died."

Of course, Erik knew all of this. So he stood by silently as she spoke, observing every motion of her lips, every blink, every little shift of her head. To be able to stand next to her—the venerated object of all his desires—to see the wistful smile and far-off look on her radiant face, without a wall or ceiling between them, was the supreme joy of his life.

"Oh, monsieur," she smiled and looked up to him, blushing slightly from embarrassment, "I'm sorry. You don't want to hear all this."

"No, mademoiselle. On the contrary, it is truly a delight to hear how you acquired your love of music," he said earnestly.

She stood looking up into his masked face, and, for the first time, Christine began to wonder what he looked like underneath. His stature was tall and a little imposing—broad through the shoulders. He was obviously trim and had a most elegant way of moving and standing. She could only assume, judging from his bright eyes, dark hair, and strong chin that everything else on his face must be equally striking. She began to think ahead to midnight when all would be revealed at the stroke of the hour.

He turned to her then and commented, "I must tell you, mademoiselle, how stunning you look in that gown. It brings out the lovely auburn in your eyes to perfection."

Christine blushed furiously at his statement, to which he added playfully, "And adds a rosy glow to your cheeks as well, I see."

She smiled and looked down shyly. Erik could only gaze in admiration at her blushing beauty.

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**Note: Napoleons **

Contrary to popular belief, the flaky, pastry desserts are not named after the first, second, or third French emperor of that name. It is believed that the name "napoleon" was a corruption of the word "napolitain" or neapolitan—the pastry is undoubtedly a French creation, though the idea was conceived from the traditional pastries made in and around the Italian city of Naples. —Busanda—

"Neapolitan Cake"  
Blanch, peel, wash and dry 1 lb. of Jordan almonds; pound them in a mortar, moistening them with white of egg to prevent their turning oily; when well pounded add:  
1 lb. of pounded sugar  
1/2 lb. of butter  
1 1/4 lb. of flour  
1 small pinch of salt  
the grated peel of an orange  
Mix the whole to a stiffish paste, with 12 yolks of egg, and let it rest for an hour; roll out the paste to 3/16 inch thickness; cut it out with a plain round 5 1/2-inch cutter; put the rounds obtained on baking sheets, in the oven. When of a light golden tinge, take the rounds out of the oven, and trim them with the same cutter. When the rounds are cold, lay them one above the other, spreading them over alternately with apricot jam and red currant jelly. All the pieces being stuck together, trim the outside of the cake with a knife, and spread it over with apricot jam. Roll out some twelve-turns puff paste, 1/8 inch thick; cut it into patterns with some fancy cutters; lay these patterns on a baking-sheet; dredge some fine sugar over them, and bake them in the oven, without colouring them. Decorate the top and round the cake with these puff paste patterns; and serve.

Jules Gouffé, _The Royal Cookery Book_, trans. Alphonse Gouffé (London: Sampson Low, Son and Marston, 1869), 532-33.


	4. La valse

**Chapter 4**

"**La valse"**

_"Never have I moved so lightly. I feel myself more than mortal. To hold this most adorable of creatures in my arms and fly around with her like the wind, till everything around us fades away…" _

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, on waltzing

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The orchestra was again assembled, and Monsieur Reyer took up his baton.

As the deceptively slow and mournful opening strains of the music began to play, Erik commented, "Ah, _'Künstlerleben'—_a beautiful tune. There are none better than the Viennese with a waltz."

"I agree, monsieur, and no one better than Herr Strauss," Christine replied.

"I cannot disagree with you, mademoiselle."

"In Vienna, when I was a little girl traveling with my father, I met him."

"I didn't know that," surprised at the revelation, he responded without thinking.

"I wouldn't expect that you did, monsieur," she giggled.

He inwardly cringed at his blunder; he was doing so well up to that point disguising his voice, he would curse himself to the grave should he ruin everything with a simple slip of the tongue. However, she did not question it, and he attempted to put it out of his mind as he gently took her fingertips and walked beside her out onto the dance floor.

Erik stretched his arms slightly apart in a welcoming gesture, and she delicately placed her right hand in his left. Reaching up, she laid her left hand on his shoulder and the soft wool of his jacket; he took her proffered hand and gently placed his right upon her tiny waist.

After the initial introductions and flourishes, as the music accelerated into the waltz proper, Christine looked up to him and advised, "I have heard, monsieur, that the key to not becoming dizzy during the Viennese waltz is to not look around but stay focused on your partner."

A small grin pulled at one corner of his mouth, "That, my dear mademoiselle, will not be a problem."

She blushed, and butterflies took flight as Monsieur Dambray began to lead her gracefully into the turns of the dance. For a slight moment, Christine felt as if she might cry at the beauty of it all, but she quickly caught herself, remembering that she was a young lady not a child. Her mind was transfixed; she, Christine Daaé, was twirling on the dance floor to a beautiful Strauss waltz in the arms of a handsome gentleman, as she had always dreamed. It was due only to her many years of ballet training that she was able to keep her body loose and supple.

As the music continued, Christine began finally to relax. She was elated. She felt airy, as if she floated above the floor, spinning as a cherry blossom petal falls gently to the ground in a spring breeze. And true to his word, her partner never took his eyes off her, which added to her feeling of lightness.

"You do dance wonderfully, Mademoiselle Daaé."

"Thank you. All those years of ballet have finally been for good.

"You dance very nicely yourself," Christine observed.

"A great compliment, mademoiselle, coming, as it does, from a professionally-trained dancer."

"You must have had lessons, monsieur?"

"I? Not really. As a child, a dancer I knew did show me some of the more basic steps, though one could hardly call them serious lessons. I think if you have an understanding of the music, dancing is not so very difficult if you just allow yourself to feel it—let the music flow through you."

At his words, something deep within Christine lurched; she did not know why. However, she could not think clearly at that moment and dismissed it from her mind; she was lost in her euphoria as she spun in three-quarter time with her attentive partner, never wanting it to end.

Off to the side, Madame Giry noticed that Christine had been escorted onto the dance floor by a gentleman. She quickly assessed him—tall, handsomely built, expensively and stylishly dressed. He wore a bone-colored mask over his face, ending just above his mouth. She would keep her eye on Christine, as well as Meg, who was then off to her right talking with a pleasant-looking young man. As the waltz began, she focused most of her attention on Christine and her dance partner who were whirling effortlessly around the great hall. Over the years, Madame Giry had become an expert at reading Christine's moods from the very subtle nuances that graced her face and the light that shone from her eyes. As Madame looked at her then, it was apparent Christine was experiencing pure joy. She looked again, more carefully, at the man upon whom Christine's gaze was so intently focused. Dark hair neatly brushed back behind his ears, a strong jaw with a subtle cleft at its apex, and those eyes—eyes, the color of the sea after a storm, glittering in the light like a pair of aquamarines. "Erik!" she gasped, as her eyes went wide and a hand instinctively flew to her mouth. Madame Giry could only look on in wonder and amazement.

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At the conclusion of the waltz, Christine's partner offered his elbow and led her over to the row of chairs set along the outer wall. Upon seeing her to a seat, Monsieur Dambray asked, "Would you care for something to quench your thirst, mademoiselle?"

Christine unfurled her fan and was sweeping it gently in front of her face to stir the air. "Thank you, yes, monsieur."

He bowed slightly and said, "I shall return with refreshment."

She watched him as he strode away, shoulders back, carriage perfect. "Yes," she thought, "he could have been a dancer."

Just then, Meg bounded into the chair next to her. "Christine," she exclaimed excitedly, "whoever is that?"

"Oh, Meg, that is Monsieur Erik Dambray." Christine could hardly contain the smile that threatened to break out across her face.

"Christine, he's wonderful! I'd love to see under the coat, I'll bet he's got a glorious backside."

Christine seemed momentarily appalled. "Meg Giry! I'm surprised at you." Then she giggled from behind her fan and added, "I think he must have."

They both laughed, and then Meg asked, "What happened to Monsieur Giguère? I lost track of you once Henri and I started talking. When I noticed you out on the dance floor, you were with this other gentleman."

"I'm not sure where he went off to, but, Meg, I think I much prefer Monsieur Dambray's company. I feel so comfortable with him and so safe. It's as if…," her voice trailed off.

"As if, what?" Meg inquired.

"Oh, I don't know…he seems familiar, somehow." Her brow wrinkled slightly.

"Perhaps you've met before…maybe after a performance."

"No, Meg. I don't think so. It's just…"

"Christine! You're glowing," Meg commented.

"You look quite happy yourself, Marguerite," Christine observed.

"Well, then, we both must be in love."

Christine giggled. "Don't be silly, Meg."

"I'm not being silly. Love at first sight, that's what it is. I know; I feel giddy."

"Meg, you're always giddy," Christine laughed.

Meg looked across the large hall. "Oh, there's Henri waving. I've got to go. And here comes your gentleman. I'll see you later." And she was off.

"My gentleman," Christine said softly to herself and sighed. "My gentleman," she repeated, liking the way it sounded.

He walked up to her, bearing a cup in one hand. "Mademoiselle, your beverage."

After he handed it to her and she took a long sip, she noticed he did not have one for himself. "Monsieur Dambray, are you not thirsty yourself?"

"No, mademoiselle, not at all," he answered her. The truth was that Erik had quickly downed two full cups of the potent liquid at the serving table to help steel his nerves.

"Are you certain? You may have a sip of mine, if you'd like," she offered sweetly.

Erik's heart drummed arrhythmically for a moment; had he been cognizant of anything but the alluring creature beside him, it may have concerned him. The idea of drinking from the same cup as Christine was beyond all his comprehension. "No, mademoiselle, I thank you though. I assure you that I am fine." The even tone of his voice belied what he truly felt, sitting next to her, talking to her as a real man, and being offered a share of her beverage. It was all so normal, and yet for Erik, it was all so unreal.

"Monsieur Dambray, are you from Paris?" Christine asked, in an effort to find out more about him.

"Yes, mademoiselle, I presently reside in Paris and have for some time, though I was born near Rouen," he answered, crossing his legs and leaning back in the chair at an angle to better observe her.

"And you, mademoiselle?" he inquired. A rather long silence followed.

"Mademoiselle Daaé…?"

"Huh?" At that moment, Christine was distracted. She was staring down at two very long, black-clad legs, a knee of which, she noticed, was casually resting in the massive folds of her skirt.

"Have you always lived in Paris?" he asked again.

"Oh…of course, I live in Paris now. But I was born near Uppsala, in Sweden, though I have no real memory of my time there. My father was Swedish."

"You traveled much as a child?" he asked.

"Yes. My father and I traveled all around Europe."

"Tell me about meeting Strauss. I would love to hear you recount it," he said.

"Are you certain?" she asked with surprise.

"Yes, mademoiselle, please," he added with a sincerity that warmed Christine's heart.

"Oh…all right." She smiled sweetly and thought back. "I remember my father and he spent a pleasant day talking of music and extolling the violin." She laughed softly at the memory. "His wife was very kind and let me play with her doll collection; Papa and her husband talked and laughed all afternoon. Frau Strauss was an opera singer, and I told her it was my dream too. She had me sing for her and the maestro after supper, while my father accompanied me on the violin. Then Herr Strauss picked up his "fiddle," as he called it, and he and Papa played together long into the night. The next evening, my father took me to the Sperl. I watched all the ladies in their beautiful gowns, twirling and whirling around and around Herr Strauss and his orchestra as they played the loveliest music on a white belvedere draped in floral garlands…I'll never forget it as long as I live." She ended softly, looking wistfully at nothing, lost for a moment in her picturesque recollection. Her faint smile faded, her head dipped, and her expression became suddenly sad. "It was very soon after…immediately after we returned to France that my Papa fell ill and…never recovered."

"You miss your father very much."

"Yes, monsieur." She fought to keep her newly-formed tears hidden. "He was everything to me for so long that when he was gone, it seemed I had no one. At my father's request, Madame Giry took me in and brought me here to the opera house, but I don't think I could have ever recovered from his passing if not for…," she faltered.

"For?"

"A very dear friend, monsieur."

"A friend? Here at the opera?"

"Yes."

"Tell me about your friend, mademoiselle," he entreated her.

"He…he is…," she hesitated. "He is my teacher, actually."

"Your teacher is…your friend?" Erik asked, surprised by her words.

"Yes…does that seem strange?" she inquired. "Oh, I know, it probably does. But it does not seem right to refer to him simply as my teacher…he is so much more."

Erik sat silently, contemplating her words as she continued.

"My teacher is wonderful…oh, he can be demanding and quite strict at times, but he listens to me…he truly cares.

"Truthfully, monsieur, I do not know where I would be without him." She smiled fondly and went on, "He saw something in me that I could not see myself. When I first came to the opera to live, he heard me sing; he saw my potential. He has been instructing me ever since, making my voice do things I never thought possible…and he teaches me not just music, but history and philosophy as well. He's had me read books I would have never thought to read…I am truly fortunate to have him." Her face was alight, radiating happiness.

"No, mademoiselle…it is he who is the fortunate one," Erik said so quietly that Christine almost did not hear him.

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**Note: Johann Strauss II and the "Artists' Life"**

"Künstlerleben" or the "Artists' Life" waltz was written in 1867 by Johann Strauss II. Strauss, who is known as "The Waltz King," wrote the "pop" music of the day, and Erik would have had no trouble walking into any music store in Paris and buying a copy of it.

Johann Strauss II was born in Vienna in 1825, the eldest, musically-gifted son of Johann Strauss I, the waltz king of his own generation (the "Lorelei" waltz or "Loreley-Rhein-Klänge" that Erik mentions in Chapter 1 was one of _his_ most famous compositions). Strauss II was a worldwide celebrity, and he took his orchestra on tour across Europe on many occasions and even made a trip to the United States. Besides composing an endless list of waltzes, polkas, and marches, he also composed many operettas, as well as an opera. He was working on a ballet based on "Cinderella" when he died in 1899.


	5. Avant minuit

**Chapter 5**

"**Avant minuit"**

"To hear you speak, mademoiselle, one would believe your teacher to be perfect."

She smiled, "No one is perfect, monsieur."

He looked intently at her face for several moments. "I disagree," he uttered softly.

"What did you say, monsieur?" she asked, not hearing him.

"Oh," he sighed, "nothing." A slight smile appeared below the mask as he continued to watch her.

"Monsieur, I must apologize…I've done nothing but talk about myself." She seemed embarrassed. "How shallow you must think me."

"Never, mademoiselle! It is a pleasure to hear you speak."

"Truly?" she asked with some surprise.

"Truly, my dear," he assured her.

She turned towards him to look directly at his face. Though she could see nothing but his eyes through the mask holes, she observed in them, for a moment, something that her untrained, girlish heart could not name. It was almost as if they were pleading with her to recognize some unspoken, secret wish. A sudden wave of strange, clouded feelings came over her.

Spontaneously, she asked, "Monsieur, have we ever met?"

He did not answer immediately. "No, mademoiselle, I can say with all certainty that we have never met before. I would have recalled such a memorable event." He stared into her radiant eyes.

"It's just…I feel I know you already…as if we've met before…maybe in another time," she laughed playfully. "Do you believe that's possible?" As she spoke, she never took her eyes from his. As though by a magnet, she was pulled closer and closer towards him.

Entranced by her stare, he was pulled towards her as well—his eyes lost in hers—until he could feel the gentle, warm breath from her slightly parted lips on his chin.

Their gazes twined for what seemed like hours, though only seconds had passed. The scent of the perfume he chose as her Christmas gift floated up to his nose and set his mind adrift. Her lips were there before him, soft and parted as the bud of a rose as it begins to bloom. He wanted nothing more than to touch his to them, if just for a second.

Mere centimeters separated them at that moment, but he could not do it. Neither could he pull away. "Anything is possible, Christine," he murmured softly.

She smiled at his use of her name, and the way the dulcet baritone of his voice vibrated from his throat when he spoke it.

"Is it, Erik?" she breathed.

His name on her lips—something so simple—was sheer bliss to him. Erik marveled at the fact that somehow she made it sound like the most beautiful name in the world.

"Why, Christine, I do believe you wish to be kissed," his voice was deep and rough.

As she continued looking at his lips in anticipation, she said nothing—the rise and fall of her chest noticeably increasing. She batted her eyelashes coyly, and Erik wondered briefly where she had learned that naughty trick.

"But Christine, if I were to grant you your wish, what would your mamma say?"

"She would say, Christine Daaé, I am shocked at you!" The voice of the woman in question, standing only feet away, sent them reeling back from one another in surprise.

A look of absolute displeasure was reflected on Madame Giry's face, a mixture of fear and contrition stood out upon Christine's, while pure mischief and amusement glowed from the two twinkling eyes behind the bone mask.

Erik stood up before her and bowed slightly. "Erik Dambray, madame. You must be Christine's foster mother. A joy to make your acquaintance, I'm sure, Madame…"

"Giry, monsieur…Madame Giry. May I ask you what you were doing with my daughter just now?" she questioned with barely-checked anger.

Erik turned casually back to Christine who sat quietly on her chair, attempting, unsuccessfully, to appear unruffled. "I was telling her a rather amusing joke about a one-eyed horse and its one-eyed jockey. We did not quite reach the punch line, though. Did we, Christine?"

Christine's eyes began to glitter with mirth as she looked between Madame Giry and Erik, and she could not contain the smile twitching precariously at the corners of her mouth.

"Christine, I expect you to comport yourself like the lady that I've raised you to be. Do you understand me?" Madame scolded her.

"Yes, Madame." The smile faded, and she looked penitently to her foster mother.

Madame Giry then turned to Erik. "And you, monsieur. You certainly look the part of a gentleman, so my expectations would be that you behave like one with my daughter."

"I will take your censure to heart, madame. You may be assured that nothing improper shall happen while Christine is in my company."

"I will trust you and take you at your word, monsieur." She dipped her head slightly as Erik offered her a gentle bow, and she turned and walked away.

He watched her retreating back and then finally turned to find Christine staring at him. She smiled meekly, and he sat back down next to her. "Why do I feel as though my knuckles should be smarting?" he turned and asked her.

"You're lucky she didn't bring her stick," Christine said.

"Indeed. Is she generally this protective of you?" he asked.

"As protective as she can be in an opera house. I mean, she would never let anything happen to us, but it's hard not to see the things that go on. Hundreds of people all living together in one building…many all in the same room; quite early on, one does notice the various habits of human nature," she stated frankly.

His eyebrow rose beneath the mask, and he studied her intently, not a little bit shocked.

She turned to him and said, "It's the truth." Suddenly though, it occurred to her that she had only just met this man and did not know him well. She became flustered; she did not want him to think ill of her in any way. "Oh, I should not have said that…I don't want you to think that I…I mean, what sort of girl will you think I am now? You must think I'm awful."

"On the contrary, I find your candor delightful. Just because you speak freely, it will not cause me to question your honor or consider you wanton," he responded reassuringly.

Her shoulders sagged in relief. She looked at him fondly and reflected upon her good fortune at meeting such a wonderful man. Christine allowed herself to think for a moment that perhaps fairy tales could come true after all.

He listened as the orchestra began another waltz, this one slower than the first.

"Would you care to dance again, Christine? This does not seem as brain reeling as the one by your friend, Monsieur Strauss? A much more sedate tempo, don't you think?"

"I'd love to, Erik," she replied with a smile.

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As the evening wore on, they danced and talked. They spoke about music in much detail; her attention wrapped by his insights into theory and composition. She asked Erik about his travels, and he obliged her with descriptions of some of the exotic places he had been to—the food, the people, the climate, the scenery—leaving out any allusion to the darker aspects of his time there. He teased her when she admitted that she could neither cook nor sew; she teased him when he admitted that he had never been on a picnic.

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It was later in the evening, the dance floor had become a chaotic whirl of colorful satins, silks, and velvets as a rousing tune played from above. While the previous dances of the evening had seemed organized, as if laid out with regulation and upon predetermined patterns, this dance was riotous and disorderly. Most of the dancers, many well on their way to inebriated bliss, happily gave in to the pell-mell spirit that was required of the participants.

Christine Daaé had been unable to convince the attentive Monsieur Dambray to join her on the floor but was quickly whisked into the fray by Meg, since many of the gentleman, the baron de Castelot-Barbezac among them, chose to pass on the raucous dance.

Erik was standing along the wall, a cup of punch in one hand, observing the melee before him when Madame Giry approached and stood beside him.

"I'm shocked, Erik. You've passed on the mazurka," she said with a hint of sarcasm.

"Very funny," he responded dryly without turning towards her. "I never imagined anyone actually danced the mazurka."

"From the looks of it, no one does," she commented cynically.

"What is Reyer thinking? Other than your girls and a few other ladies, no one knows the steps."

"I think he has a mirror up there and is laughing now," she answered flatly. "Notice how he won't turn around."

They stood in silence for some time before she finally spoke again. "I was surprised to see you here tonight."

"Did you not dare me to attend?"

"I didn't dare you, Erik. I merely made a suggestion. I never believed you would actually come."

"Well, it's a damn good thing I did, or Christine would be in a dark hallway right now with some lecherous little lothario's hand up her skirts."

"As if I would let that happen…I stopped _you_, didn't I?" she commented caustically.

"Stopped me from what?" he turned to her with a cautionary scowl.

"From kissing my daughter in public…it would ruin her reputation…I don't want the entire opera house to see Christine kissing a man in public, she would never live it down."

He was momentarily indignant. "I had no intention of kissing her…she, on the other hand…," he cut himself off. "You do know, madame, she is quite the little coquette…you would do well to have a talk with her…Meg also."

Madame Giry let out a heavy sigh. "I do my best, Erik. They are good girls, but they see and hear far too much for their own good. It is not easy raising two teenaged girls in an opera house."

Thinking back to what Christine had said earlier, he made no response but took another long sip of his drink.

"So what are your intentions?" she asked.

"Intentions?…I have no intentions, madame," he answered disdainfully.

"You must have intentions regarding Christine. You've barely left her side the entire evening," she persisted.

"No, madame, I do not. At the stroke of midnight, I will turn back into a ghost…in a few days, Christine will not remember my name," he stated firmly.

"Are you so certain?"

"Yes."

"I do not want my daughter hurt, Erik…I swear to God, if you hurt her, I will…"

"You'll what? Hhmm?…You'll expose me?" He chuckled darkly and continued, "We both know that will never happen." He leaned over then, close to her ear, "To expose me is to expose yourself as an accomplice to each and every one of my crimes. You would do well to save the idle threats for your little rats…they're actually scared of you."

Madame Giry stiffened and tried desperately not to show any emotion on her face.

However, he sensed her disquiet and continued in a placid tone, "You needn't worry…I have no _intention_ of seeing Christine hurt, which is why, after tonight, Monsieur Dambray shall disappear forever."

"Don't you think you should first find out if that is what Christine wants?" she asked.

He took a final gulp of his punch. "I believe this discussion is at an end. If you will excuse me…" He calmly set his empty cup down on a tray and walked away, one arm tucked gracefully behind his back.

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The dance ended just as Erik again took up position where Christine had left him. She approached him laughing and clutching at her stomach, trying to catch her breath. He took her by the elbow and led her to one of the chairs, which she slumped into, her legs and skirt spread out before her.

"I feel like I've run round the city walls," she gasped.

"You, my dear, were one of the few who actually knew the steps…you should be very proud."

She leaned towards him, wrapping her arm around his. "Did you see that skinny, bald man with the waxed moustache? He knew the steps as well." Her breathing was finally returning to normal.

"Hhmm. A skinny, bald man with a waxed moustache who knows the mazurka? He seems entirely too suspicious to me," Erik said with a laugh of his own.

"Well, he seemed most infuriated with the way everyone was bumping into one another. I'm certain at one point he stopped and started stomping his foot, although in all the muddle, who could tell?" She laughed again and looked adoringly up at him.

He turned then, focusing all his attention upon her. "I love to hear you laugh," he said with a tender expression. Reaching up, he pushed an errant curl off her shoulder, gazing lovingly into her eyes.

She began to lean further towards him, turning in her chair to face him. Closer, closer, she came. Erik's mouth was slightly open, and she took it as an invitation. Suddenly, he pulled back a little, stopping her advance. He moved his hand up to her hair and played gently with what lay behind her ear. "If you persist in this behavior, Christine Daaé, I'm going to start to think you actually are wanton."

She sat straight up in her chair. "Monsieur, how can you say such a thing?" She turned to face forward, her arms crossed, an indignant pout on her face.

She looked adorable to him. With a smile, he responded, "I'm only teasing you, Christine. I want nothing more than to kiss you, but I know the moment I do, your mother will appear out of no where and box me on the ears."

In truth, Erik knew that if he succumbed to her playful advances for a kiss and allowed their lips to meet, he would never have the strength of will to leave her. He would be her obedient slave for all eternity—a simpering dog at her feet, whether she wanted him there or not.

"And then she'd box mine," Christine added, turning back towards him.

"I promised her as a gentleman," he added soberly.

"I know," she said regretfully.

He stood. "Shall we take a stroll, Christine…and talk?" He extended his hand.

"I would love to, though Madame Giry has bade me to stay within her sight. So we cannot leave the hall."

"Then we may promenade around the second tier. I'll make certain we stay near the balustrade, so she can keep you under her custodial watch."

She slid her hand around his proffered elbow, and they ascended the grand staircase to the first landing. Erik then directed her to the stairs that would take them to the second level. Once there, they slowly made their way around the circumference of the grand hall, taking in the colorful scene below. At one corner, as they neared the thick columns supporting the floor above, Erik glanced down to the crowd below to find himself looking directly into the assiduous gaze of Madame Giry. Once behind the columns, he halted, holding Christine back from proceeding forward.

"Erik, what are you doing? We can't stand behind here. She won't be able to see us," Christine said with a delighted twinkle in her eyes.

"_That_ is the idea." He peeked around to check the ballet mistress's whereabouts. "Quickly now, we'll make for the wall and circle back around." He tugged Christine's hand and led her in a circuitous route along the outer wall in the shadows, bringing her to the rail on the far side of the hall. As they glanced down, they could see Madame Giry gazing up and slowly turning in a circle, attempting to locate them. By the time she saw them, opposite the spot they had disappeared, Erik was staring down upon her smugly, and Christine was smiling and waving. Madame Giry took a calming breath and cast them a scolding look.

They repeated this maneuver a second time and then a third, so that by the time they halted behind the thick stand of marble for a fourth time, Madame Giry failed to notice their disappearance for several long minutes.

Christine giggled as she ran into Erik's side behind the giant coral-colored pillars. He turned her gently and held her elbows, staring down at her. He was certain he had never been in the presence of anything more beautiful than the woman standing in front of him—neither the Venus de Milo nor the _Mona Lisa_ could contend. Her head tilted up to look at him; she was so close. He could examine the various shades of brown and gold in her eyes, the lushness of her eyelashes, the flawlessness of her skin, the sensuous curve of her mouth, the flush of roses in her cheeks, her swan-like neck.

His eyes said more than words ever could with a look of ardent yearning that seemed to devour her. Christine stood transfixed, her chest rising and falling more quickly as she returned his fervent gaze. Erik's chin trembled ever so slightly. His lips parted. His respiration too had increased. He felt warm.

After what seemed an eternity, she blinked, shaking her head slightly as though waking from a trance. "Monsieur, is something wrong?"

"You have bewitched me, mademoiselle," he answered impassionedly.

"I?" she asked in a choked whisper, her eyes never leaving his.

"Yes…my Christine."

She felt a strange, fluttering sensation deep inside. The urgency and possessiveness of his statement and the unmitigated longing with which he looked at her kindled something within her. She was drawn even closer towards him and reached a hand up to touch the side of his mask, brushing her fingers down, ever so lightly, over his exposed jaw and chin.

He had to fight the overwhelming urge to take her in his arms and never let her go; spirit her away to his lair and keep her there with him forever. He loved her so, but he knew that he could not condemn her to a life with him, for sharing his world was akin to living without sunlight in the dusky gloom of an endless night. Though his mind told him this, his heart screamed to be heard; it fought against his logic as it yearned to feel her loving caress and constant warmth and craved to join her tender, yielding spirit to his harsh, barren one. He inwardly cringed at that idea and thought, _"Yes, I would suck the life right out of her…and that is why I must let her go." _

His lips twisted into a sad smile, so melancholy and so full of unfulfilled desire it would have broken Eros' heart. He looked away and faintly shook his head. "We must go back…your mother will be missing you."

She looked down, feeling dejected and bewildered by what had just transpired.

He took her by the hand and walked her to the top of the stairs where they encountered the highly displeased visage of Madame Giry. Her skirt was hitched in her hand, annoyance clearly etched on her already stern face. She was about to voice her complaint when she looked to Erik; the expression on his face made her realize that it was not the time for harsh words.

"We were just on our way down, madame. Had you waited another few seconds, you could have saved yourself the trip," Erik stated derisively and brushed past her, Christine silently in tow.

As they reached the bottom of the staircase, it occurred to him that he had not looked at his watch recently, and so he removed it from his pocket to check the time. "Damn it," he muttered. It showed 11:45.

"What?" Christine asked, noticing the watch in his hand. "What's the matter?" She was confused by his recent behavior and wondered at the significance of the timepiece.

He remained staring down at it for a few moments more, dreading what he must do, hating the thought of leaving her. But he knew that should he stay until midnight, tradition and Mademoiselle Daaé would dictate that he remove his mask, something he simply could not do, not even for her—especially for her.

He looked up, finally, at her lovely, trusting face; the light in her eyes reflecting his feelings for her back to him.

"Erik, what is wrong?" she asked sweetly, placing her trusting hand softly on his sleeve.

"I will shortly have to bid you a good-evening, my dear. It seems your company was so delightful, and I was enjoying it so much I had forgotten, at midnight, I am expected at another function."

"Oh, Erik…you're leaving?" Her disappointment was palpable. The smile fell from her face, and she was doing everything she could not to look utterly despondent.

"It is regrettable. I hope you are not too disappointed. It has been a lovely evening, the memory of which I will cherish forever." He took her hands in his and held them gently. He closed his eyes and in whisper, almost to himself, declared, "Tonight, I have tasted all the happiness the world can offer."

"Oh, Erik…" Tears welled in her eyes, and she fought desperately not to let them fall. "When will we see each other again?"

"I cannot lie to you, my dear Christine," he looked down at their joined hands as he spoke, "I think it may be unlikely that we will. I have to go away to a place where seeing you like this will be impossible." He fought not to choke on the words. He secretly gave thanks for the mask for it hid an expression so pained that it would have prevented him from continuing with the charade if she were to see it.

She choked back a sob, and he quickly lifted his eyes to see her face melt into sadness.

"Christine, there is so much you do not understand, so much you are too good to know."

She looked up at him, trying to understand the meaning of his words.

"I am not the man I seem."

The tears rolled down her cheeks then, and he pulled her towards the wall and embraced her, wrapping his strong arms around her for comfort. "Shsh, shshhh, my dearest girl. You have given me a gift tonight I thought would be denied me forever." He tilted her chin up with his gloved fingers to make her look at him. "One day, you will meet your handsome prince, and he will give you all the wonderful things you deserve…all the things I cannot."

"I don't understand, Erik." She looked up into his face, searching for the answers in his eyes.

"I am sorry, Christine," his rich baritone broke into a hoarse whisper as he spoke.

A silence fell between them. Erik removed a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. He watched her dab at her tear-streaked face.

For Christine's part, she knew that he had offered her no expectations beyond the evening. Apparently, she had made a series of incorrect assumptions concerning his feelings for her, which she attempted to reason were the products of her inexperience. Her heart had been snapped in two, but she would not allow herself to fall completely to pieces in front all these people and certainly not him. She would do so later—alone.

He checked his watch yet again. "The countdown to the New Year is soon to begin, and I must be on my way out, lest I turn into a mouse, a rat…or worse."

At that, she tried to smile at him, melting his heart once more. He looked at her dolefully, not willing to ponder all his misfortunes and the reasons he must leave her. His mouth turned up into a sad grin, and he bid her farewell, "Good-night, Christine."

"Good-night, Erik."

And with that, he turned and walked away.

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**Note: Ballroom Etiquette**

The following hints on ballroom etiquette may be of use to persons unacquainted with dancing, or who have not been accustomed to attending balls with ladies:

—It is improper for two gentlemen to dance together when ladies are present.

—While dancing, a lady should consider herself engaged to her partner, and therefore she is _not at liberty_ to hold a flirtation, between figures, with another gentleman.

—If you cannot waltz gracefully, do not attempt to waltz at all.

—In waltzing, a gentleman should exercise the _utmost delicacy_ in touching the waist of his partner.

—When a young lady declines dancing with a gentleman, it is her duty to give him a reason no matter how frivolous the excuse may be.

—If a lady refuses to dance with you, _bear the refusal with grace_; and if you perceive her afterwards dancing with another, _seem not to notice it_.

—Loud conversations, profanity, stamping the feet, writing on the wall, smoking tobacco, spitting or throwing anything on the floor, are _strictly forbidden_.

—The practice of chewing tobacco and spitting on the floor, is not only _nauseous_ to ladies, but is _injurious_ to their dresses.

Thomas Hillgrove, _A Complete Practical Guide to the Art of Dancing_ (New York: Dick & Fitzgerald, 1863).


	6. Apres minuit

**Chapter 6**

"**Après minuit"**

The countdown to midnight came and went with Christine in a daze. She was vaguely aware of people cheering and throwing their masks into the air. Couples celebrating the promise of what the New Year might hold—embracing, twirling, and kissing—all became an indistinct blur of color and movement. She stood quietly, turned in upon herself, numb to the gaiety around her.

It was not long after that Meg approached and stood beside her, looking more than dejected herself.

"What happened to Monsieur le Baron?" Christine asked, partly guessing the answer.

"Sorelli made her appearance, saw us dancing, waited until my back was turned, and walked away with him. She's probably taken him down to show him the fountain under the little rotunda by now." Meg seemed resigned.

"Oh, Meg, I am sorry. Truly I am." Christine placed a consoling hand on her back.

"He was so nice, Christine…and so handsome…I liked him, and I thought he liked me too."

"If it was that simple for Sorelli to capture his attention then he really wasn't worth it. Now, was he?" Christine reasoned.

"I know that. But it just doesn't make it any easier." Meg was crestfallen.

"What happened to your handsome gentleman?" Meg asked, knowing that misery loves company.

"He left. He said he had another engagement at midnight that he just couldn't miss."

"Christine, I am sorry. Perhaps though, you'll see him again. He probably attends the opera frequently. He's bound to come seek you out after a performance. He seemed quite taken with you from what I could see," Meg attempted to reassure her.

"No, Meg, I think not." Christine shook her head forlornly.

"Of course he will. You'll see."

"No, he won't. He more or less told me so before he left. He said that he had a lovely time this evening, but I shouldn't expect any more. He said something about going away."

"He led you on, Christine! That wasn't very nice," Meg said angrily.

"I led myself on, Meg. Seriously, no man like that is going to want a sad, poor orphan from the opera anyway—not even for a tryst in the _Foyer de la Danse_."

"Oh, Christine! You're lovely…and sweet…you put me to shame. Just because some fatheaded, thoughtless man doesn't know how to appreciate you, doesn't mean you aren't."

"Oh, Meg, thank you. You're lovely and sweet as well…and you know it. And you're the best sister in the world." The two girls hugged and offered one another sympathetic smiles.

"Well, we're quite a pair," Meg wrapped her arm around Christine's shoulder, "standing here in our gorgeous gowns having a pity party while everyone around us is celebrating."

"We had fun though, didn't we?" Christine asked, trying to pick their spirits up. "Despite everything, it was fun. And that's what we wanted tonight, wasn't it?" She tried to smile and looked earnestly into Meg's face, trying to convince herself as much as her friend.

"Yes, we had fun, and that's all that matters. So we didn't meet Prince Charming. We're still young; we've got our whole lives ahead of us," Meg sounded more optimistic.

"Yes. And one day, you'll be prima ballerina," Christine declared.

"And you'll be a great singer, a diva," Meg asserted.

"And then we'll have the pick of any man who walks into the opera house…Sorelli be damned," she added.

"Meg! Don't let Madame hear you talk like that," Christine scolded as she looked around quickly to ascertain that Madame Giry was not near. Then she clutched her friend tighter, and they managed a small laugh.

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As the girls started to walk towards Madame Giry to inform her of their intention to leave, they heard a harried, masculine voice call out, "Mademoiselle Giry! Please, mademoiselle, wait."

They stopped and glanced back to see the baron de Castelot-Barbezac, looking slightly disheveled and offering up a sheepish grin.

"Mademoiselle Giry, I thought you might have gone. I hurried to find you," he stated, trying to catch his breath.

"Well, actually, monsieur, we were just now on our way out. Good evening." With that, Meg turned abruptly, pulling on Christine's elbow to proceed.

"Please, mademoiselle, let me explain. I know it was entirely rude of me to allow myself to be dragged away like that, but my friend, Didier, was in need of some assistance. I tried to tell you at the time, but you had gone to the powder room, and Mademoiselle Sorelli was most insistent." He paused, and Meg and Christine turned back to him, a look of hopeful longing evident on Meg's face.

"He can be rather intemperate at times, unfortunately. Mademoiselle Sorelli came to inform me that he was rather…uh…incapacitated, and she could not manage him in his present state. I felt it was my duty, as his friend, to see that he was returned home safely. I do hope you were not too offended and can find it in your heart to forgive me. I very much enjoyed your company this evening, mademoiselle, and I would like very much not to leave you with a poor impression of myself."

"You went to help your friend?" Meg asked.

"Yes. Do you forgive me?" he replied contritely.

"Of course I do. He is very fortunate to have such a devoted friend as you," Meg added with a charming smile.

"Well then, Marguerite, I would be honored if perhaps one day I might call on you and escort you to lunch, if that would be agreeable to you."

"Oh, Henri, I would like that very much, but I would have to ask my mamma," she answered.

"Your mamma would have no objections, as long as it was on a day when you had no rehearsals and you were back by three," Madame Giry responded from behind them. She had approached but kept at a slight distance during their exchange.

"So, you were on your way out, then?" he inquired.

"Yes, it's getting late," Meg replied.

"I was hoping for one last dance," he said expectantly.

"Christine, do you mind?" Meg asked.

"No, of course not. Go ahead, Meg. I'll wait here with Madame."

As Meg and the baron took the dance floor, Madame Giry reached over to adjust one of Christine's curls. "So, my dear, did you not have an enjoyable evening? You seem a little down."

"No, Madame, I enjoyed myself…immensely," she answered, though sounding rather cheerless.

"My dear, you look as if you could cry," Madame Giry remarked with concern. She took Christine's shoulder and forced the girl to face her. "Did Monsieur Dambray do or say anything unkind?"

"Oh, no, Mamma, he was very kind…too kind. He was a perfect gentleman. May we please not talk about him?" Christine rejoined.

The fact that Christine had addressed her as "Mamma" as opposed to "Madame" had not been lost on her guardian since it was a rarity when Christine would use the familial term. Over the years, Madame Giry had learned that only when Christine was very troubled would she hear that particular endearment.

In a quick attempt at comfort, she began to stroke Christine's hair. Then she clasped the girl's hand in her own and led her to the chairs along the outer wall. She needed to determine what was troubling the young woman whom she loved and considered her daughter.

They sat together, away from the crowd. Madame Giry turned in her chair to take Christine's hands in her own and looked keenly into her eyes, which seemed completely devoid of light.

"Now, my dear, tell me what is troubling you," Madame Giry urged.

"I'm afraid I've been reading too many fairy tales, that's all." Christine's mouth curved into a mournful smile.

"You were so looking forward to this night. I hate to see it end like this for you," Madame Giry said tenderly.

Christine stared straight ahead, unmoved by her words.

"Monsieur Dambray left early, I noticed," Madame Giry began to probe the cause of Christine's melancholy.

"Yes. He said that he simply _had_ to leave before midnight. He was most insistent," Christine made a vain attempt to sound indifferent.

"The man was charming, I am certain. But you are young, there will be others."

"I don't want others." Christine surprised Madame Giry by her response.

"He didn't give you any false hopes, did he? He couldn't have made you any promises." Madame's heart skipped a beat, and she looked closely at Christine. "He didn't, did he?"

"No, Madame. In fact, he thought it highly unlikely that we would ever see one another again."

"Damn, him," Madame Giry cursed to herself. It was a second or two later that she realized Christine was staring at her strangely; she had, in fact, said it aloud. She glanced quickly toward Christine, flustered. "I don't like that he hurt you…that's all."

For some time, they sat silently; always patient, her foster mother knew that Christine would speak when she was ready. As she sat staring down at her hands resting atop her voluminous silk skirt, Christine appeared detached. Eventually though, Madame Giry noticed her eyebrows furrow, as if she were suddenly pondering a very great riddle. Curious, she followed Christine's line of vision down to the wrinkled piece of white cotton that she held on her lap.

She noticed Christine's mouth fall open slightly as she fingered the handkerchief, which had been wadded in her hand all that time. She watched as the girl raised her eyes and lowered them again, repeating this same pattern again and again over the course of several long minutes. Still, Madame Giry said nothing. She observed, however, that Christine's cheeks had gradually become as white as the cloth she held.

"Madame," she finally asked weakly, staring straight ahead at nothing, not looking at the woman, "who sends the presents each year?"

Madame Giry froze, suddenly paralyzed by a long-dormant fear. "The presents, Christine? I don't understand."

"The presents…birthday…Christmas…the dresses…Madame, who sends them to me?" Christine asked quietly, yet she fused the words with underlying urgency.

Madame Giry's eyes grew wide, but she did not answer immediately.

"Madame, please, I know that you know." She turned towards her then, beseeching her foster mother to answer.

"I am amazed that you are asking only now." Madame Giry shifted her eyes away from Christine and stared out across the hall. The festivities around her were lost to her thoughts as she formulated the best way to answer. She resolved that a lie would not do—no more lies.

"My teacher…the Angel of Music…you know him, don't you?" Christine asked reluctantly, as if she were afraid of the answer.

"Yes, Christine," Madame Giry answered, looking down at the floor in front of them. "He sends you the gifts."

"And the Phantom of the Opera?" Christine was all too aware as Madame Giry sucked in a sudden gulp of air, holding it with an expression of painful effort on her usually stoic face. "You know him too?"

"Yes, Christine," Madame Giry answered again, not able to meet Christine's eyes yet, too afraid of the accusations and condemnation that she might find there.

"My teacher is no angel, is he?" Christine asked calmly.

"No, Christine…he is not," the older woman responded.

"But neither is he a ghost nor a phantom. Is he?" Christine asked again.

"No, he is not," Madame Giry answered again, her heart twisting uneasily under her ribs.

"He's only a man, isn't he?" she questioned sadly, already knowing the answer.

"Yes, Christine…he is," she stated solemnly.

"My teacher is…is…is…," her voice broke with a half-choked cry. She could barely force the words out of her mouth and had no hope of finishing the sentence for all it would mean.

So Madame Giry finished it for her, "…Erik."

"Oh, God!" she gasped, her hand flying to her open mouth. She started to sway and tilt in her chair, so Madame Giry reached out to steady her, thinking that she might faint and crumple to the floor. Christine's reaction surprised even herself, and she clutched at her mother's arm, fighting to regain some control, telling herself to breath. Her thoughts were a bombardment of deeply wounded feelings and absolute confusion. She did not know whether she should scream, sob, or laugh out loud; so she settled for merely shaking her head back and forth until she was able to form the words to her endless questions.

"Is anything he told me tonight true?" Christine implored. "I don't know what to believe now.

"He said that he was an architect, designer, composer…musician." She looked warily to Madame Giry.

"Yes, Christine, that is all true. He is a brilliant, gifted man," she replied sadly. She paused, wondering how much of the secret that was Erik's life she should reveal under the circumstances. Wanting to frame her responses carefully before answering, she took a moment to think.

"He is the most intelligent person I have ever known…a genius, Christine." Madame went on, trying to paint Erik in the best possible light, "Remember a few years ago, the design for the revival of Meyerbeer's _Robert le Diable_?"

Christine nodded. "It was wonderful, I remember."

"That was he," Madame Giry said.

Christine's eyes spread in astonishment.

"The managers may complain about the interference of the Opera Ghost and his demands, but they aren't complete idiots. They're willing to accept sound advice when they receive it," she explained. "And a couple of years ago, remember _Don Carlos_?"

"Of course, Madame. How could anyone forget the honor of having Signor Verdi compose an opera for our house," Christine replied.

"Messieurs Verdi, du Locle, and Méry all acknowledged the helpful assistance of Monsieur O.G. in making many constructive and insightful suggestions, which ultimately led to the opera's success."

Christine's head was slowly shaking back and forth, as she continued to listen.

"He's entirely self-taught, which has always amazed me…he knows several languages…philosophy, history, all the great works of literature…science, mathematics. He is a gifted artist, composer, and musician; I do not think there is an instrument he cannot just pick up and play. And all these things, he learned by himself. As far as I know, he never went to school."

Christine continued to shake her head, amazed and bewildered by all that she was discovering about her teacher, the Phantom, and the man that she had just recently come to know as Erik Dambray.

"He has been devoted to the nurturing of your voice, as well as your mind, all these years. He is a very great teacher." As she spoke, Madame continued to stroke Christine's hair and back, offering solace as well as she could, while the young woman sorted through the revelations.

"I always knew my angel was most sage. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," Christine stated softly.

She turned back to her mother then and asked pleadingly, "But…why me, Madame? Why me? Why did he choose me?"

"That is something you will have to ask him yourself. I have only ever guessed it, and I have revealed far too many of his secrets to you already. He'll be very cross with me as it is," Madame Giry explained.

Christine stared out over the ballroom but saw nothing and everything all at once; she seemed to drift away for a moment…up the stairs and down the hallways to the quiet, little chapel. "A voice…just a voice…the voice of my angel…the Phantom of the Opera," she murmured.

A single, soundless tear flowed down Madame Giry's cheek, and she closed her eyelids firmly to keep more from following. Though the burden of one lie had been lifted from her shoulders by Christine's discovery, she could find no relief in the fact. Now she would be forced to pick up the wrecked pieces of Erik's deception and shoulder them as well—she loved them both too much to not.

"How did you come to know him?" Christine finally asked.

"It is a long story, Christine, maybe better left for another day. I don't know how much he truly wants you to know," she answered.

"But I need to know…I want to know…why tonight? Why did he wait so long? Why did he not come to me as a real man sooner?" Christine cried in desperation.

"I can tell you only that I do not think it was ever his intention to reveal himself to you at all," Madame replied as calmly as she could. "From what I know, he only intended to come here tonight and watch over you…make certain that nothing untoward befell you."

"Untoward?"

"He was afraid you could be taken advantage of…that you might be hurt. He wanted to be here to protect you in case you needed him…he was worried about you, dear. He was afraid that someone might use your naïveté against you."

"Who better to know about using my naïveté against me," Christine spoke with an uncharacteristic touch of cynicism.

"I still don't understand. Why did he not leave my side all evening? Why did he make me feel the way that I do now…I care for him…oh, God, why?" She dropped her head, weeping.

Madame Giry let her cry and held her, rocking her gently, until the sobs abated. Eventually, Christine raised her head, took a breath as deeply as her shuddering lungs would allow, and whispered in a rasp, "Why did he come to me at all tonight? Why couldn't he just leave me alone?"

Madame Giry put her arm around Christine's shoulder and stroked her hair. "I do not think he could help himself, Christine," she answered simply.

Christine lifted her tear-soaked face and looked questioningly at the woman who had been her mother for half her life. "I don't understand."

Continuing to stroke Christine's hair, adjusting some stray curls, Madame Giry responded, "I am not certain that you realize it, but you have grown into a very beautiful woman, my dear." She looked long and hard into Christine's eyes, until she saw the comprehension dawn in them.

"And Erik is only human…though, he would do his best to deny it," she continued.

"Oh, Madame…I…oh, Madame…," Christine could not put words to the thoughts that were suddenly racing through her head, ordering themselves into clarity and understanding. "He…he…he is…I…I…I don't know what to do." The poor girl raised her hands in a gesture of helplessness, looking to her guardian to make sense of it all for her.

Madame Giry breathed in deeply. "There is only one thing you can do…you must speak with him. Make him answer your questions and explain to you why he has done the things he has done. He owes you that much." She continued to hold Christine and to help her dry her tears. "And you owe it to him to let him try."

Christine glanced down at her lap again, and it was only then that Madame Giry noticed the red, embroidered "E" on the corner of the handkerchief.

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**Note: Verdi's **_**Don Carlos**_

In 1865, Giuseppe Verdi was commissioned to write an opera for the _Opéra de Paris_. He settled on the story of _Don Carlos_ as told by Friedrich Schiller in a play of the same name. The five-act libretto was written by Camille du Locle and Joseph Méry. The premiere took place on March 11, 1867 at the _Théâtre de l'Académie Royale de Musique_ (the original Paris Opera) and was translated into Italian and presented in October of the same year at the _Teatro Comunale di Bologna_.


	7. Aux enfers

**Chapter 7**

"**Aux enfers"**

As she walked along the narrow edge that rimmed the underground lake, she thought back to the last time she ventured down there—long before she left to become a wife and mother, still only a girl. At the time, she knew the tunnels and secret passages of the opera house almost as well as he; but after his departure and return many years later, he had made it very clear that no one, she included, was welcome in his domain. She had heard the stories of building inspectors, nosy stagehands, or vagrants off the street who had wandered to the fifth cellar, for whatever reason, never to return—assumed an accident—drowned in the lake. She pushed those unpleasant thoughts from her mind since she was nearly to her destination.

After walking in the pitch-blackness for nearly thirty minutes with nothing but an old tin lantern to guide her, she finally saw the glow ahead, indicating that she was almost there. As she came round the corner, she gasped at the sight before her. Candelabra filled the spacious grotto; hundreds of candles cast the walls and ceiling in a glowing golden light. The front of the space was filled with a large, ebony organ, its pipes fitted into the solid rock walls. Fringed draperies of red and gold damask hung all about. As she stepped up into Erik's home, she also noticed the general clutter. The mess on the floor caused her to roll her eyes and smile in spite of herself—papers, books, a rumpled shirt, a sock, several broken quills, empty bottles, a half-eaten roll, a cape—this was decidedly not the abode of any spectre, but a very human male. She also noticed charcoal and pastel sketches scattered everywhere—all of Christine.

She was amazed. It was not the vast empty cavern that she had seen as a girl, holding only the elemental necessities of life and whatever else could be easily brought down from the prop rooms. He had moved up in the world and filled his home with treasures and artifacts, many were so large that she could only imagine them being carried down by elephants.

During her perusal of his home, she failed to notice its lone resident, who was sitting at the desk off to the left side of the organ watching her intently.

She felt his glare before she actually saw him. He stood, and she turned to find him looking highly displeased. He had donned the white half-mask with which she was familiar and removed his coat, cravat, and vest. His elegant white shirt was undone and barely still tucked, spilling out around the cummerbund and revealing a very handsome male chest; she chided herself for noticing.

Matching line for line the side of leather, an inhospitable scowl spread over the exposed side of his face. "How did you get down here?" he asked with scorn.

"The staircase," she replied.

"It's riddled with booby traps."

"I took my chances. And besides, I know most of your tricks. Remember?"

"How very adventurous of you. I am annoyed but not completely surprised. You have always been one for a little bit of danger. Haven't you…pretty ballet girl?" He stalked over to her then, a menacing glimmer flashed in his eyes.

Leering down on her, circling, he came uncomfortably close; but she refused to show him any anxiety, though her thudding heart was ready to explode through her chest. To say that Erik could be intimidating was a monumental understatement; he fed and lived off intimidation, becoming one with it and playing it like a fine instrument. Perhaps she had underestimated him. Perhaps he had reached the limits of his sanity. It suddenly occurred to her that she had put herself in a perilous position by going there, especially when the hurt of having to leave Christine at the ball was still raw. He could be just as unpredictable as a great, wild cat and, if provoked, just as merciless. It suddenly occurred to her that she had walked into the lion's den.

She remained motionless, not looking directly into his eyes; she was careful not to show him any fear. She did not flinch as he reached up to run his fingers over her cheek; she did not utter a sound as he ran his thumb along the contour of her lips. She prayed silently that he was merely trying to scare her—teach her a lesson. She had invaded his home, his territory, and she should expect to pay the penalty for such an intrusion.

He removed his hand, and she let out a quiet breath. "You've been drinking," she noted coolly, though she thought her knees might buckle.

"Ah, yes, how observant you are. But then I count on you to be, don't I?" he questioned caustically.

She did not respond.

He continued pacing around her. "I forget my manners. I am not accustomed to having guests in my home. Usually, they never make it to the threshold; I end up hauling their rotting cadavers out of the lake…that is, if the carp don't eat them first." He swaggered back to his desk and lifted a bottle of brandy in an offering gesture. "Would you care for a swig?"

Again, she did not respond, nor did she move a muscle.

He continued, "I was all out of Courvoisier. Damn it! Nothing like Napoleon's favorite drink when one is feeling bitter, contentious, and small. So the brandy, here, will have to do."

She remained silent as he held the bottle up and waggled it at her.

"No? Too bad. It might do you some good. You could use a little loosening up, you know. That stern, ballet matron act is getting old. One of these days, the Phantom is going to take that stick of yours and…"

"That is quite enough, Erik," she finally spoke.

"Oh, so she's indignant, is she?" He put the bottle back down and walked over to where she was standing. He bent down close to her face and, with a wicked grin, said. "All right, I won't use that stick of yours, I'll use mine. That way, we can both enjoy it."

Her hand flew up and made contact with his exposed cheek so fast that she never had time to contemplate the consequences. She had never struck him before. She had never dared.

With his instincts and reflexes somewhat dulled by the liquor, he was slow to react. He turned his head back cautiously to regard her. The only person ever to show him true kindness was standing wide-eyed with her hand covering her open mouth. It was evident to him that she feared he would snap her neck in two as he had threatened on numerous occasions. The euphoria that he usually enjoyed when he instilled terror in others was replaced with shame.

He simply rubbed his cheek. "I deserved that, didn't I?"

"Yes. You're drunk, though, so I'll forgive you," she said shakily.

He nodded slightly.

"I didn't mean to hit you so hard…I am sorry as well," she added, her heart still racing.

"No harm done. It actually sobered me up a little, I think," he replied.

"Good. You'll need to be sober when you go talk to Christine."

His eyes snapped to hers. "Say, again." He carefully studied her face in an effort to clarify that he heard what he thought he did.

"Christine is waiting for you in the chapel," she stated clearly.

"What the hell are you talking about, woman?" he demanded.

"She knows, Erik…she knows," she finished sadly.

"She knows," he repeated softly. His eyes flickered about, looking at everything but her. She could see him thinking, trying to absorb what she had just said and all its implications.

"You told her?" he asked beseechingly, hoping it was not true, hoping she had not betrayed him. He stared into her eyes with an intensity that tore at her heart.

She shook her head. "No, Erik, she figured it out."

"How much? How much does she know?" he asked in desperation.

"Enough," she stated with compassion. "She knows that her angel, the Phantom, and Monsieur Dambray are all one and the same."

He staggered backward and landed with uncharacteristic clumsiness, sideways, on the chair at his desk as if he had been punched in the gut. He sat there dazed for a few moments, his elbow propped across the back of the chair, his hand clutching the side, his legs splayed out before him.

"And you confirmed this?" he asked her hoarsely.

"I had no choice, Erik. The girl's heart was broken. She couldn't take another lie." She stepped closer but hesitated. She was not certain if he would allow her to comfort him.

"What have I done?" He was in agony. "Why did I go?" His voice seemed as though it was wrenched through his chest. "Why did I go to that damned ball? I knew better…I knew that I shouldn't…I went anyway.

"I only wanted to be a normal man…just for one night." He raised his eyes, pleading with her to understand. "Just for a few hours…I wanted to walk amongst other people and not have them run from me…I wanted to pretend that I was just like anybody else…I wanted to dance with the person I adore…just once. And what bliss it was…but, was it worth it now that I've ruined everything?" He dragged his fingers up through his hair and grabbed two fistfuls with his hands. "Everything! She will never forgive me now…I am the worst kind of creature. For one moment of light, I will spend an eternity in darkness…I won't even have her voice…" The tears flowed freely as he set his head down in his hands and his elbows on his thighs.

She approached, and kneeling down next to him, she wrapped her arm around his quaking shoulders. She refused to allow him to succumb to the despair, it would be far too difficult to pull him out of it. "Listen to me, Erik, all is not lost. Do you hear me?" Placing her hands on his shoulders, she shook him gently. "You have to pull yourself together. You have to go talk to her. She wants to listen to you. Tell her the truth. Explain all this to her."

"I cannot face her now. It is too late," he wept.

Madame Giry persisted. "It is not too late. She waits for you. She wants you to go to her. She wants to understand."

He seemed thoughtful but did not reply.

The damp void of the cave was silent for many long moments before the voice of reason was finally heard. "It is your only chance," she stated frankly.

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Though Erik's heart was pounding, his mind was resolute as he escorted Madame Giry up through the tunnels under the opera house. After cleaning himself up and redressing, he was on his way to the chapel for the most important lesson that he would ever share with Christine. He was not entirely certain that he knew what he would say to her, but for the first time in eight years, he would do so face to face.

He left Madame Giry at the tunnel that led to Carlotta's dressing room and wound his way through the secret labyrinth that only he knew so well, until finally, he arrived at the back of the chapel and the painted angel that stood watch over what passed for an altar. It looked like part of a mural painted on the wall, but the angel in white was actually on a panel that closed off a long-forgotten hallway. He had installed a latch on it many years before that would allow the entire frame to swing outward like a door, but he could not bring himself to open it.

He stood there for ten minutes or more when he heard the sobbing—the unmistakable, heartrending sobs of Christine Daaé, alone and grieving. She was grieving not over the death of her dear Papa this time, but over the death of her precious Angel of Music. The irony was not lost on Erik that Christine would pass out of his life in much the same way and in the same exact place that she entered it.

Knowing then what it must feel like to walk the stairs to the guillotine, and knowing that he was as ready as he ever would be for such a task, he lifted the latch and swung the panel open.

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**Note: Courvoisier, "The Cognac of Napoleon"**

Though the Courvoisier family did not officially begin bottling their famous cognac until 1843, long after the death of Napoleon Bonaparte (Emperor Napoleon I), Courvoisier has always been known as the "Cognac of Napoleon."

In 1811, the emperor paid a visit to Emmanuel Courvoisier's and Louis Gallois' wine and spirit business in the Parisian suburb of Bercy. The warehouse was full of fine cognac. The emperor fell in love with the stuff and, later, upon his exile to St. Helena, asked the British to allow him to have barrels of it shipped with him. The British obliged, Napoleon shared it with them, and everybody was happy.

In 1869, Courvoisier became the "Official Cognac Supplier to the Imperial Court." A title granted by Napoleon I's nephew, Napoleon III.

In 1909, the famous bottle bearing the silhouette of Napoleon I was introduced, followed by a "Josephine" bottle in 1950.


	8. Un rare tresor

**Chapter 8**

"**Un rare trésor"**

Her eyes were closed from crying; she sensed him approach the little stone bench and stand directly in front of her. Her chin was on her chest, so she opened her teary, swollen eyes to find herself looking at two polished, black shoes, protruding from what appeared to be the bottom of a very long, elegant, black cape.

Slowly she raised her head, taking in his entire form a little bit at a time all the way up past his slightly bowed head, until she met his now-familiar eyes of sea green. They were awash with emotion as he looked down upon her, and she was not sure if they reflected pity, remorse, sorrow, love, or some strange mixture of all of them.

"I was crying because I thought you were not coming. I was afraid I'd never see you again," she said, breaking the stillness in the quiet, little room.

"I was afraid that you would not want to," he told her dolefully, bending his head downward until he looked at the floor.

She stared up at him, studying the features that had been hidden to her the entire evening. She recognized the chin and lips and, of course, his eyes, but everything else appeared new and changed her physical perception of him slightly. What stood out the most was the stark, white half-mask that covered the right side of his face ending just above his lips. It contrasted boldly against his dark hair and cloak in the dimly illuminated room.

She shifted over and asked, "Won't you please sit with me?"

He looked at her from under his eyelashes and gracefully seated himself beside her, though he made certain that no part of him or his cloak touched her. He looked down at the floor again.

She could study him in profile, his left side nearest her. She decided that she had never seen a more handsome or noble-looking man; the strong, well-defined chin with its subtle cleft; the classic line of his aquiline nose; his strong cheekbone—he was reminiscent of an ancient marble bust that she had once admired in the Louvre. If this man were the Phantom of the Opera, Christine thought, the stories of his frightening appearance had been exaggerated to the point of ludicrousness. The white mask perplexed her though, and since she had gone there for answers, she could not help but ask about it. She wanted to know as much as he was willing to tell her. She longed to hear his explanation…she hoped to understand…she needed to forgive.

"Erik, may I ask you some questions to which you seem only to have the answers?" she asked quietly.

He did not look at her but replied, "Christine, I will answer anything that you ask, if I am able."

She began, "Where do you live?"

"Below the opera house, in the fifth cellar, across the underground lake," he stated concisely, looking at the opposite wall.

"How long have you lived there?"

He thought for a moment, as if calculating. "Twenty-five years, with the exception of the time I spent abroad."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-five or so…I think."

"You think? You do not know?" Astonishment rang through her voice.

"No," he answered as if it were the most common thing in the world not to know one's own age.

She considered his responses for a moment. "That means you were about ten when you came to live here. What were the circumstances?"

He had told himself as he walked up from the cellars that he would not lie to her any longer. As he heard her ask this question, he bit back hard on the urge to tell a falsehood or, at the very least, gloss over the brutal truth. No, a lie gained nothing; he was a man condemned, and as such, he no longer had anything to lose. Therefore, he answered, "I needed a place to hide."

"Hide from whom?" she inquired innocently.

"The gendarmes…I killed a man."

Those four words pounded squarely into Christine's chest, her stomach flipped, and she could feel the blood rush from her head. For an instant, she thought she might faint. She sat there benumbed. Had she looked down, she would have noticed that Erik's knuckles and fingers had suddenly become more pronounced under the tightly fisted fabric of his cloak.

Still, he did not look at her.

It took her several long, silent minutes to process what he had said. She needed to give herself enough time to steady her nerves and formulate her next questions. She convinced herself before going to the chapel that no matter what he told her, she would not judge him too harshly. Of course, she never imagined he would confess something of that magnitude in his litany of sins.

She gulped. "You were only ten-years old. Why?"

Erik was deliberate in his explanation; he wanted it all to be over as quickly as possible. "He beat me…abused me in every other way imaginable…caged me…took away what little dignity I had. And he had the gall to call _me_ an animal. If I could have escaped from him and the hell that he inflicted upon me any other way, I would have done so…he gave me no choice."

Christine's heart was racing. "So, you ran away after you…after you…after you…"

"…murdered him," he finished for her pointedly.

"Yes," she replied.

He said nothing more but continued to stare out across the room.

"Why did you come to the opera house?" She went on with her questioning.

"I was brought here," he responded.

"By whom?" she queried.

"By your foster mother."

"Madame Giry?" she asked incredulously. "Madame Giry brought you here?"

"Yes, though she was not 'Madame Giry' at the time. She wasn't much older than I was."

"I don't understand."

He tensed. "She came to see the oddities…the freak show."

Christine's brow crinkled, understanding slowly beginning to dawn.

He continued, "She was the first person who ever looked at me in that cage and had not either screamed in horror and turned away or laughed and jeered. Even if I had not escaped that night, I would have always remembered, until my dying day, the little girl with the white ribbon in her hair and the sadness etched upon her face. Maybe it was because of what I saw in her eyes as she looked at me…I do not know…but I decided then that I would make my escape or die trying. It was her compassion, which bound our lives together that night; she came back to the tent afterwards to see if she could do anything for me. Little did she know she would witness a murder…that her fate would be inextricably linked to mine from that point on." He stopped for a moment, fully immersed in his recollection. "After I strangled my keeper through the bars, she unlocked the cage. I do not remember much immediately after—only the feel of her hand, gripping mine for dear life, as we ran through the streets of Paris." His chest fell with the tremendous breath that he had been holding. "She brought me here."

"What of your family?" Christine was shocked, yet the questions kept coming to her mind.

"The only family of which I was ever aware was my mother." He recalled, "My dear mother couldn't stand the sight of me, and so I did us both a favor and ran away. The Gypsies found me, and I spent the next year or so traveling around Europe as an exhibit in a sideshow tent."

Christine's eyes were downcast. She shook her head slowly. "How could anyone do that? You were just a little boy."

"The world is full of cruelty, Christine. It is an especially harsh place for those who are perceived as being different." He clenched his jaw, and still he did not look at her.

She hesitated for a moment. "Your face…is that why…under the mask." She reached up and turned his face slightly towards her with her hand beneath his chin.

The sensation of her bare fingers on his skin robbed him of his breath. He closed his eyes for a moment to savor the feeling, before looking down on her with shame and regret.

"Are you asking about this?" He turned his head all the way to the side, tilting it down to indicate the mask. However, he did not look away this time. He needed to see her reaction, as painful and damning as it might be.

She nodded and glanced from his eyes back to the mask.

"What is it the sceneshifters say? I have no face…yellow parchment for my skin. Well…they are half right."

"Would you let me look?" she asked ruefully.

"No."

"You don't trust me…even now?"

"It is not a matter of trust, Christine. I do not want you to see. You are too lovely and good to have to look upon something so grotesque." His voice shuddered as he spoke to her, "And despite my affliction, I am a very vain man."

She looked up into his face. "Is that why you left the ball early? You couldn't take your mask off?"

"Yes."

"Madame said you went to the ball because of me…to watch over me."

"Yes."

"It wasn't the only reason. Was it, Erik?"

"No." He looked down at her hands resting comfortably in her lap, and he longed for one of them to reach up and touch his chin once more and to feel the softness of her fingertips. "It was my chance to be normal for one evening. To walk amongst a crowd of people and have no one look askance. It was my chance, Christine, to come to you as a man—neither an angel nor a ghost…just Erik."

She said nothing, sitting silently, absorbing all she had just been told.

"Please, in time, try to forgive me, Christine. I did not mean to hurt you. That I have caused you pain because of my selfish actions is unforgivable. I had no right to lead you to believe I was anything other than what I am." He was trying to remain composed, but he knew if he stayed much longer, he could not control his emotions. He did not want her to see him blubbering like a fool, and so he stood, ready to leave once he said all he needed to say. "I deserve an eternity in hell for causing you to suffer, for lying to you and deceiving you. Of all the myriad of sins of which I am guilty, these for hurting you are the ones for which I deserve the harshest penalty." He turned back towards the open panel and began to walk away.

"Angel?" her voice echoed against the stone walls.

He froze. Not able to step forward, he could not look back.

"Why? Why me?" she called out to him.

He kept his back to her, afraid to move. "What…?" he whispered tremulously.

"Why did you choose me?" Paths of tears ran like streams along her cheeks, into and over her mouth, and down onto her neck. "What did you see in me…that every night for the past eight years you gave me your knowledge…your passion for music…when you could have better spent your time with more important things?" She felt as if she were hanging on to him by the thinnest of silk strands; she was afraid to pull too hard, yet she could not let go.

"Oh, Christine…," he said with solemn supplication, "there was never anything more important to me than the lessons that we shared in this room."

She cast her hands into the air. "I am so confused…I cannot grasp any of this? With all that I now know, the reasons seem no clearer." Still crying, she attempted to take in air. "I do not see the spiteful opera ghost before me who I have heard tell of, but, apparently, I have been his gullible victim for years now." Erik noticeably flinched and looked back to her. "And yet, I do not feel tricked or mistreated. I feel…cared for and loved," she finished calmly.

He simply stood there staring at her, suddenly appearing as confused as she was.

"Please…tell me why," she pleaded softly.

"I do not think that I can give you an adequate explanation, Christine," he answered sincerely.

"Please, try." She straightened her shoulders, as if bracing herself against whatever he might say.

He reflected for a moment, and when he spoke, the words came out unfeigned from his heart. "Even before I knew the glories of your voice, I was drawn to you. It would have not mattered whether you could sing or not. Sitting here on this hard, cold floor, you were so tiny…so helpless. What could I do?" He looked at her as if the answer were the most obvious in the world. "What kind of monster would I truly have been had I simply walked away? I had no choice…you gave me no choice!"

His eyes were wide, begging and pleading with her to understand. He continued, turning slightly to avert his gaze from her, "I was once scared and lonely, huddled in this very same room…I knew…I understood…I heard." He paused for a moment and went on, "And you, Christine…you…listened…"

"Oh, Angel," she sobbed.

With tears visible on his cheek, he turned back to her sharply with fury in his eyes. "I am no angel, Christine," he yelled harshly.

She did not flinch nor did she cower. "You will…always…be my…angel," she uttered with mild defiance. How she managed to push the words out in the midst of so many tears, Erik could not fathom. Her face was so wet with them that he thought she might drown.

Her utter despair caused Erik's heart to constrict until he thought he might fall over; it felt like a knife had been driven through his chest. He desperately wanted to go to her, but his heavy guilt held him rooted to the floor.

"You are the angel, Christine…I am not fit to stand in your presence." He turned again towards the open panel, his mind telling him to flee.

"Please…don't leave me," she begged in despair, believing that if he walked away from her then, she would lose him forever. He stopped and stood stiffly, listening. "You may not think yourself an angel. No, you have neither wings nor a halo, but you have served in the function of my angel all these years. Whether God or my father or any other spirit of heaven sent you directly to me, you came to me when I needed you, and you have never failed me since…please, don't leave now."

Her eloquent plea left him speechless. He looked back towards her, but he could only stare in wonder as she went on, "To me, you are not only my devoted teacher…you are my friend. All the deceptions and the lies that have been told are insignificant to the good you've brought to my life…" She stopped to sniffle and catch her breath. She stood to face him. She looked like she might collapse. "Oh, Erik…please, don't go…I could not bear it," she finished in a whisper.

His mind and his logic be damned. In one huge stride, he reached her, wrapping her in his arms and pulling her to his chest. Christine grasped onto him, her arms encircling his waist, gripping him fiercely.

"Christine, Christine, Christine…," he murmured into her hair, over and over.

After several minutes, once her breathing was steady, she pulled back to look up into his face. "Erik, why did you wait so long? All those years, did you not know how I yearned to see my angel…to hold him? It was all I ever wanted."

"Christine…I convinced myself you would reject me once you knew the truth…once you saw the mask."

"Oh, Erik! I could never reject you. The mask does not matter."

"The mask hides only the outward imperfections, Christine. In many ways…I am as distorted inside…more so." He glanced away, not wanting to meet her eyes. "I can no longer hide under the guise of an angel when, in reality, I am the farthest thing from one." He paused, letting out a heavy sigh. "I am not a good man, Christine…my soul is corrupted. That is why I hid myself from you. I am unworthy…I will taint you if I stay too close."

"Erik, I know only how you have been with me. In spite of how you see yourself, I have seen the good in you…the kindness…the compassion…the love. Your heart is not as black as you would have yourself believe…I know it. A man like the one who you describe would not have concerned himself with the sorrows of a sad, lonely little girl. He would have scoffed and walked away. He certainly would not have comforted and nurtured her all these years."

"Christine, you give me far too much credit." He turned his head away.

She reached up and turned it back to her.

"No, Erik, I give you all the credit you deserve. You said yourself…you heard."

They stood staring at one another. She silently pardoned him for his endless sins with the love in her eyes; and he marveled at the miracle who was Christine Daaé.

In no way did Erik truly believe that he deserved this absolution. However, stranger things were known to happen between heaven and hell and, with this angel so soft, warm, and real within his grasp, it was not the time to question it.

He pulled her to him again, placing his hand behind her head, cradling it to his chest. She had worked her arms under his coat, still gripping his waist. As they stood, Christine's curious hands began to roam up his back and down again. The muscles, obvious beneath his vest and shirt, signaled the raw physical power within him. She had not embraced a man, since her father when she was just a little girl. Since being a young woman, besides the male dancers of the ballet corps, she had never really touched one. She was amazed at the solidness and took a quick survey around his front and up his chest, finally winding her hands behind his rather long neck.

"So, you will continue as my teacher? Nothing has changed?" she asked as he removed a handkerchief and began wiping her face and nose.

"Everything has changed, Christine…but, yes, I will continue as your teacher." He paused, his eyebrow raising slightly as a favorable thought occurred to him. "Though now, it will be much easier for me to give you proper lessons. We will no longer be limited to this room with a violin as your only accompaniment. I can take you to my home. There we will have access to a piano and the pipe organ. It will be…"

"You have an organ in your home?" she cut him off.

"Yes, I assembled it myself," he answered, somewhat proudly.

"Oh, Erik, take me to your home…tonight. I want to see it," she begged.

He smiled down at her and her enthusiasm. "Not tonight, my dear. It is very late…but soon."

"Oh, Erik, tonight…please," she added with a coy smile followed by a very lovely pout.

Weary of all the barriers between them, he quickly tugged off his gloves and let them fall to the floor. Then free to feel her with his hands, he moved them up to either of side of her head and began to play with the curls around her face and shoulders. He was tempted by her idea, but he sighed and said, "No, Christine, not tonight. It has been a most trying day, to say the least. You need your rest, and I…need to clean."

"Clean?" she asked bemusedly.

"Yes, my dear, the place is a mess. If you were to see it as it sits right now, you would undoubtedly go running in terror. It is, without question, the abode of a hopeless bachelor." He smiled.

"Not so very hopeless, I think," she murmured softly to herself.

"What, my dear, I could not hear?" he inquired.

"All right, but soon…you promise?" she spoke more loudly.

"Yes, Christine…soon, I promise." He continued to stroke her hair, enjoying the feel of it through his fingers.

She looked up at him, something obviously crossing her mind. Her mouth curled up into a mischievous smile. "You know, Erik…I never did get my New Year's kiss."

He looked mildly perplexed for a moment until a grin appeared, and a wicked twinkle shone in his eyes. "Why, Christine! After all your diligent attempts to garner a kiss this evening, at the stroke of midnight as tradition dictates, you came up empty?"

She nodded her head.

"Why, it is not only a shame but a grievous crime that your lovely lips could be ignored at such a time." He had moved his hands to either side of her face, caressing her cheeks lovingly with his thumbs.

She looked up at him expectantly.

"Though, I must say it will be a chore for me, I feel, as a gentleman, it is my duty to correct such a grave oversight and offer myself for this significant task."

He dipped his head slowly. Christine raised herself up on her toes to meet him. Their lips came together, softly at first, the pressure increasing gradually. They pulled apart and looked into one another's eyes. Erik's heart was pounding, and all he could feel was the sensation of her lips on his just seconds before.

Christine tugged lightly at the back of his neck to indicate that she wanted his mouth once more, and he obliged willingly. Again, they met softly at first, until a deeper urge took over, and their mouths began a fervent dance against one another. Momentarily lost in the mounting passion, Erik was astonished by the sudden intrusion of a tiny, slick tongue past his slightly parted lips.

He pulled back and looked at her from under heavy lids. "Christine," his voice softly rumbled, "however did you know to attempt that little trick?" he asked roguishly.

"I told you, Erik, I grew up in an opera house." She smiled up at him demurely. She was now hanging from his neck more than standing under her own power.

He straightened up slightly, cocking his eyebrow. "You have learned far more than the arts during your stay here." He pretended to scold her, "You are a very naughty girl."

She ignored his comment and settled comfortably back into his hold. They relaxed against one another's embrace, finally at peace after an emotional storm that, at times, seemed as if it would wash away their past, present, and future all at once.

She suddenly squeezed him tighter, and he heard a tiny, muffled giggle at his chest. She lifted her head up and declared, "I cannot believe that my dreams have come true…I am standing here in my angel's arms." She let out a satisfied sigh.

He gazed down at her nestled there. "What of Monsieur Dambray? Have you forgotten him so easily?" He seemed affronted.

She looked up, appearing astonished. Her mouth was open in disbelief.

"You silly man…you're jealous of yourself?" Christine tittered. She knew he was teasing her.

"Do I have reason to be, my love?" He continued the jest.

"No, my dearest, you are the only man for me." She patted and rubbed his chest tenderly then grasped the lapels of his vest. "You cannot know my absolute joy at discovering that the charming," she reached up to place a delicate peck on his lips, "elegant," she placed another, "man," and another, "with whom I spent my evening and my dearest angel were the same person.

"Though, deep down, I think I must have known from the moment I saw you," she reflected seriously. "I know my heart knew, if not my head." Christine gazed lovingly at him.

She set her head back down against his chest, and he laid his chin affectionately atop her head. There they stood, delighting in the feel of the other, when they heard a gentle cough in the direction of the hallway entrance. They both glanced that way, but neither of them made the slightest effort to break apart.

Madame Giry stood appraising the scene before her, a slight sparkle appearing faintly in her tired eyes.

"Christine, though we have no rehearsals tomorrow, it has been a long night and is very late. You should think about going to bed, dear."

"Please, Madame, just a little while longer." Christine looked to her hopefully.

"All right," she said with a small, satisfied smile, "I will leave you then."

"I'm in good hands," Christine assured her, smiling up at Erik.

"I know," she affirmed as she turned to leave.

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Madame Giry made her way back to her rooms through the silent and darkened halls of the opera house and reflected on the night and its gratifying end. As she secretly hoped they would, her two lost and lonely little lambs, as she thought of them, had finally found one another. It was a long, roundabout, and, oftentimes, exasperating route they had traveled to arrive in each other's arms. However, for the first time in what seemed like forever, all was right.

Madame sighed contentedly as she reached her door, though she knew better than anyone the struggles that lay ahead of them. Erik had many of his own personal dragons to slay before he could become the prince of whom Christine dreamed. For her part, Christine would have to call upon all the patience and tenacity that her tender, young heart could elicit to help Erik become the man he longed to be and whom she deserved.

She had known the darker aspects of the world from an early age, forcing her to grow up more quickly than she would have liked. Her experiences had transformed her into a reluctant pessimist—she was never truly bitter, though idealistic, romantic notions and the people who harbored them had always seemed somewhat silly to her. Nevertheless, after witnessing what transpired that evening, Madame Giry could only smile and believe, given time and a little love, fairytales, indeed, could come true.

LE FIN

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_**Another Moral**_

_**From Cinderella, or the Little Glass Slipper**_

_**By Charles Perrault**_

Godmothers are useful things  
Even when without the wings.  
Wisdom may be yours and wit,  
Courage, industry, and grit,  
What's the use of these at all,  
If you lack a friend at call?

I would like to thank all of you who read my little story. I hope that you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Thank you.

Christine (Busanda)


End file.
